Father Figure
by royza-hawkstang
Summary: Someone has been keeping close tabs on Riza Hawkeye…the question is how far they'll be willing to go to have her. Set post-Brotherhood, and may contain spoilers for that series. Rated M for language and adult content.
1. The Watcher

_A/N: Welcome! Once a week, on Wednesday, I'll be uploading a new chapter of this new multi-chapter fic. I hope you enjoy._

_I do not own FMA._

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**Chapter One - The Watcher**

EAST CITY, EASTERN DISTRICT

DECEMBER 7, 5 A.M.

The sun had yet to rise over East City; another two hours would see it peeking over the horizon, bringing weak,

wintry light to the waking population. For now, the majority of the city slept, though soldiers spanned across the urban landscape were rising from their beds, flooding the windows of their homes with light as they got ready for the day.

On a flat rooftop, lying prone within a thick black coat, a man watched one such lighted window through large binoculars. Pale blue eyes followed the movements of the occupant within through the lenses. "Good morning, my lovely," he murmured. "How good to see you again."

Lifting a hand from the binoculars, he picked up the pen lying on the pad of paper at his side. Nearly numb fingers shook only slightly with cold as he wrote '_Rises 5 a.m._' "As per usual," he murmured.

His hand paused in its writing, his eyebrows lifting with a broad smile as something within the apartment caught his attention. "What have we here . . . ." The woman stood with her back to the window, long hair loose, in the process of unbuttoning the dusty-pink sleep shirt she wore. It dropped from her shoulders, and her watcher's smile grew even farther. "Ah . . . . A beautiful tattoo, to be sure."

The woman shrugged into a clean shirt . . . the man watched as her head came up sharply, and she moved out of sight. He reached over to scribble 'full-back tattoo' on the paper. "Now, what got your attention so suddenly," he said, half to himself. There were two windows to his subject's apartment; his eyes darted from one to the other.

Abruptly, she appeared again, a telephone receiver pressed to her ear, the main body of the device held in her hand as she moved to look idly out the window. The man stared at her, at the way her lips moved as she spoke, at the way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She was serious as she spoke to her caller . . . and then smiled without warning.

"Oh my . . . ." His heart raced at the sight of her lips curving upward. The smile wasn't meant for him: it was private, fond, and amused, all at once. No teeth showed, but the tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. To be privy such a private moment, to so subtly violate it, thrilled him.

The woman took the phone from her ear, replacing it in the cradle as she moved farther back into her apartment. Over the course of the next ten minutes, he periodically lost sight of her as she moved about, getting ready for the day, until finally, the lights were extinguished.

Setting the binoculars aside, the man crept to the edge of the roof, peering down into the street below. Snow crunched and squeaked under the woman's boots, less audibly so beneath the paws of her dog as the pair of them emerged onto the street. Scratching affectionately behind her pet's ears, the woman led him off north at a sedate walk.

The man watched her go until she turned a corner. "Taking the dog to work today, hm? How sweet." He folded his arms on the roof edge. "Have a nice day, Lieutenant Hawkeye."

The coffee shop up the street from her apartment was, to her knowledge, the only establishment within walking distance that was open at this hour. Pushing through the door, setting the overhead bell tinkling, Riza paused to hold the glass-and-wood panel open for Black Hayate.

"Good grief, young lady, don't you know it's too early to be up and about?" a voice said from behind the counter, gruff and irritable.

"It doesn't seem to stop you, Mr. Nickelson," Riza countered good-naturedly. This verbal sparring match had been part of her morning routine every day of three out of the six years she'd spent stationed in East City before transferring to Central with Roy; the pattern had continued upon their return after the Promised Day. "You're getting contradictory in your old age."

Leaning on the serving counter, Nickelson fixed his customer with a mock-stern glare. "And you're as lippy as ever, missie. Didn't anyone ever teach you to respect your elders?"

"When you're old enough to be an elder, I will," she assured him, smiling fondly. "But in the meantime: have any recommendations for this morning?"

Folding his arms, Nickelson shook his silver-haired head stubbornly. "No can do, not until you learn to keep your tongue in check. I'm terribly insulted; I doubt I'll be able to work now."

"Eric, stop grousing and give the girl her tea!" a woman's voice interrupted. Said voice's owner bustled into view a moment later: a graying, robust woman wiping her floury hands on an already dusty baker's apron. "Good morning, Riza dear," she said, cheeks dimpling as she smiled. "Don't mind him, he's been a pill since he woke up." She moved toward a tall thermal container, picking up a clean white mug as went. "I've got just the thing for you, sweetie: a lemon-orange blend that's just right for waking a body up."

"Thank you, Marian." Putting her payment on the counter — and shooting a teasingly victorious look at Eric — Riza trailed along the serving counter after the woman. "It sounds perfect." Behind her, seated patiently on the tiled floor, Hayate barked twice.

"Ah! You brought him!" Coming around the end of the counter with a brimming mug, Marian beamed at the Shiba Inu as the bell over the door chimed again. "There he is! There's the handsomest dog in all of East City!"

Pausing in the act of stomping snow from his boots, Roy looked up, somewhat bewildered. ". . . I'm not sure whether I should be flattered or insulted," he commented, looking to the shop's only other occupants. "She used 'handsome' and 'dog' in the same sentence."

"Not you," Marian scolded mildly, before turning her attention back to the dog in front of her. "_This_ fella is the handsomest!" Crouched in front of him, she scratched vigorously behind his ears, his eyes closing and tail thumping the floor, happy at the praise. "Look at this adorable face! You just want to cuddle him forever!" Standing straight, she patted him on the head. "You wait right there; I've got something special in the back for you."

Accepting a cup of coffee from Eric with a nod, Roy faced his Lieutenant. "Sorry for the short notice. Like I said, I wanted to discuss this before we got to the office."

"Not a problem, sir." She gestured to the ironwork tables spaced across the shop. "Shall we?"

The two of them settled into their separate chairs, Roy dropping a folder onto the tabletop between them. "New orders came through regarding the reconstruction effort. We're going to need to make another trip to the Kanda region in the next couple of days." He rubbed wearily at his forehead. "It's an extended stay; we'll need use of the house."

'The house' was a military-held property in Ishval: four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and a living area, just big enough for Roy and his personal staff, plus one or two visitors as needed.

Riza opened the file, scanning briefly through the pages contained within. Five separate travel orders, for Roy, herself, and the rest of the men, all with Grumman's signature at the bottom. Five orders, instead of six, since Falman had elected to stay in the North at Briggs. "I'll call ahead and set up the arrangements when we get to the office," she said, taking a sip of her tea. "It all seems very straightforward. Why was it necessary to meet with me outside of work?"

Dark eyes watched Marian giving Hayate a pair of vanilla wafers as a treat. "Maybe I just wanted to see your pretty face," he said dryly, before sobering. "Truthfully, I wanted your opinion on something." He shifted in his chair, folding his hands in front of him. "What if I were to . . . extend an invitation for the Elrics to go with us? There's new buildings going up in that region, and it might be good to have a couple extra hands that are good at making things."

Smiling faintly, Riza sat back in her chair. "Winry might object to you dragging Edward away, but I can imagine both he and Alphonse might be interested in helping. Though Edward won't be able to assist in an alchemical capacity."

"That shouldn't be a problem, given the Ishvalan opinion of alchemy." Roy took a deep sip from his coffee cup. "I'll put a call in later this morning . . . unless you want to do it? He's less likely to yell at you."

Lifting a single eyebrow at his sheepish grin, Riza fought back a smile of her own. "That's all right, sir, I'm sure you can handle it." Her cup of tea held in both hands, she peeked over the rim at him, watching for his reaction. "Though I suppose, if you can't find it in you to talk to one teenager from a hundred miles away, then . . . ."

Her voice trailed off as his brows drew low on his forehead, eyes narrowing. He knew full well what she was doing, with this completely blatant attempt at reverse psychology. At this point, it wasn't even that anymore; it was full-out mental blackmail. If he backed down, Roy Mustang would forever be known as the man afraid of Edward Elric.

His tone, despite his glare, was civil and serene. "I can't imagine what gave you that idea, Lieutenant," he said. "I simply thought that, seeing as you have a soft spot for those boys, you might want to be the one to call them."

"Of course. I must have misunderstood you." Riza sipped at her tea, before pausing to study the cup's contents. Free at last from Marian's attention, Hayate trotted across to stand with his head in his mistress's lap. "Was there anything else you wanted to discuss with me, sir?"

He shook his head. "That should be it." Grinning, he buried his nose in his coffee cup. "I thought it might be a nice surprise for the men to see the Elrics. Couldn't very well discuss my plans in front of them, now could I?"

"A surprise," Riza repeated, smiling faintly. "In the way that finding an angry badger in your apartment would be a surprise, maybe."

"Did you just call Edward Elric a badger?"

Shaking her head, Riza swallowed the last of her tea. "Arguing with you first thing in the morning is impossible, sir. You stop using logic and resort to twisting my words." Sitting back, she stroked Hayate's head, watching as his eyes closed in contentment.

"Logic requires brainpower. My brain is not entirely awake yet." His eyes watched her over the rim of his coffee cup. "That's what the coffee is for."

Silence held for nearly five minutes after that, the two of them gazing out the window with their own thoughts as the city dozed under its six-inch mantle of snow. The occasional military police vehicle drove past, patrols keeping an eye out for any malcontents; not that it did any good, since lowlifes knew to keep their dealings and themselves concealed in the back alleys and abandoned buildings.

At last, at a quarter to six, Roy got to his feet. "Ready to go? I can give you a lift to Headquarters, if you want."

Riza smiled. "It's either that, or walk a half-mile with a dog that loves playing in snow far more than he should." Standing, she re-fastened the buttons on her coat before bending to attach Hayate's leash to his collar. "He's gotten big enough that he can almost drag me around."

"Then allow me to help you out, Lieutenant." Reaching over, he plucked the leash from her hand before motioning to the door. "Time we were on our way, I believe."

Halfway to the door, Eric spoke. "Hold up, Little Riza; aren't you forgetting something?" He waved a folded newspaper in his hand, smirking. "You like to stay in the know about what's going on in the world, don't you?"

Taking the stiff newsprint, she fought back a smile of her own. "You know me too well. Thanks again; both of you."

Marian waved from the kitchen. "You just bring that pretty puppy back soon; that's all the thanks I need!"

Grimacing as Hayate pulled strongly against the leash, Roy muttered, "There is _nothing_ about this beast that's still a puppy."

The walk to the car was a short one, the only noise being the snow beneath their boots. As was the case every time he met his Lieutenant somewhere, Roy had parked a distance away from the location so as not to draw unwanted attention to their meeting place. Just another habit that had formed in the years the two of them spent gathering sensitive information.

Once settled in the driver's seat, Roy wasted no time. "So what did they give you?"

Unfolding the newspaper, Riza extracted a piece of paper with neat writing on it. "Something interesting." Her brow furrowed. "'Dissident elements gathering in North City under cover of miners' coalition convention.' I'm sure General Armstrong would be highly interested to hear about that."

"If there's increased chatter from Drachma, it could mean they're planning a two-pronged assault on Briggs." Slouched in his seat, Roy stared out the front windshield, thinking. "There's nothing to say Armstrong doesn't already know about it, with her sources, but if she had, odds are that _we_ would have heard something."

"Not if she didn't go through official channels." Pursing her lips in thought, Riza passed him the note. "She doesn't trust Grumman any further than she can throw him; none of her people do. If there's something going on in her back yard, she's not going to take help from Central _or_ East City to beat it back."

"Hmm. Point." Wriggling one hand into a glove, Roy opened the door and held the note out over the snow; one tiny snap later, it was aflame. "Have Fuery get in touch with their communications officer on the secure line they set up, see if he can confirm or deny this rumour. If it's true, we have a vested interest in nipping it in the bud; any similar attacks along the Eastern border would be even easier than in the North."

Hands folded in her lap, Riza relaxed against the smooth leather seat. "I'll have a report on the situation on your desk by noon."

"Good." Giving her a side-long glance, he smiled. "Are we done talking business now?"

"For the moment."

"Finally."

Leaning across to her seat, he touched his fingers to her chin, turning her face toward him. Lips closed over hers in a softly passionate kiss; Riza smiled at the touch. When Roy pulled away, turning his attention to getting the car started, his face carried a tinge of red. "Been wanting to do that since I walked through that door this morning," he muttered.

"Just over a year, and you still blush," Riza murmured, half to herself. "That's adorable, really."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment and ignore the sarcastic undertone."

* * *

With Hawkeye's dog at the office with her, it left her apartment totally unguarded. Perhaps the woman didn't realize how lax her personal security really was, if her home was this easy to break into. Any person with a bit of skill as a lockpick and a tendency to move quietly could get in within ten minutes.

Standing in the middle of the living space, hands in loose fists on his hips, the man studied his surroundings. "You'd certainly never make it as a homemaker, would you, my dear . . . ."

The apartment was spartan at best: nothing more than was absolutely necessary. A bed, a table with a pair of chairs, a tiny kitchen — kitchenette, really — a dresser. Head tilted curiously to once side, the man drifted toward the latter.

"Can't say much for your taste in clothes," he murmured, sifting through the middle of three drawers. Each garment was neatly folded, all of them shirts in this drawer. A number of them were black with short sleeves and a high collar, though several were clearly more feminine. The dark shirts were all on the left side of the drawer, the lighter ones on the right; divided between the two different lives led by Lieutenant Hawkeye, military and civilian.

Pausing to jot down that particular observation, the man closed the drawer, turning toward the bed. Picking up the pillow in its clean, white linen case, he pressed it to his nose and inhaled deeply. A blissful smile crossed his face, his eyes closing. "Ah, yes. Soft and sweet, just as a good woman ought to be . . . ." Replacing the pillow almost tenderly, he smoothed away the wrinkles in the fabric made by his face. "And beneath all the guns and military posturing, that's exactly what you are, isn't it."

Crouching, the man flattened himself against the floor before flipping onto his back and edging underneath the bed. Taking a tiny, circular device from his pocket, he peeled a square of paper from the adhesive back before reaching up to attach the gadget to the underside of the bedframe. Smiling tightly in personal pride, he wormed his way back out into the open room.

A similar device was placed behind the toilet in the bathroom and underneath the table in the kitchen area before he turned his attention to the apartment at large once again, surveying the place. "Someday, dear, you and I will have a lovely chat, face-to-face, and I won't have to sneak around this way."

He was still a moment, before a thought occurred, and he returned to the dresser. Sitting innocently atop it was a glossy, painted ceramic box, decorated in a Xingese style. Lifting the lid, he withdrew a slim gold chain holding a simple amber pendant and tucked it into his pocket.

Leaving was considerably quicker than getting in. The man locked the apartment door behind himself, moving down the hallway to the garbage chute. Glancing around to make sure he was unobserved, he quickly shed his overcoat, dark pants, and pullover, revealing a military uniform underneath. Dropping his discarded clothes down the shaft, he paused long enough to tuck his pants soldier-style into the tops of his boots before heading for the exit.

He slipped noiselessly down the stairs, and out the door onto the street, blending in with the foot traffic inching toward the military headquarters. He kept his eyes on the high, white stone walls as he walked, lips curved in a slight smile.

_I'm coming, Lieutenant. Please, wait there._

* * *

EAST CITY MILITARY HEADQUARTERS

DECEMBER 7, 1323 HOURS

"I understand that, but —"

Riza looked up as, across the room, Roy stopped in the middle of a sentence for the sixth time. He sat with both elbows propped on his desk, one hand holding a telephone receiver to his ear, the other massaging the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Perhaps, she thought as she watched him, he'd had good cause to dread calling Edward.

At last, Roy's free hand dropped to his desk with a thud, the hard look in his eyes betraying the fact that his patience had snapped. "Elric, would you just shut up for two minutes and hear me out?!"

Returning her attention to her work, Riza smiled inwardly. It had taken weeks of badgering on Edward's part and habit-breaking on Roy's for him to stop using the name 'Fullmetal.' He drew the line at referring to the young man by his given name, but to remember to use 'Elric' while on the verge of losing his temper was a step forward indeed.

His voice was calmer when he continued. "The only reason I'm asking is because you worked with Scar and Miles during the events leading up to and during the Promised Day and I thought you might want to see how things are progressing. It strikes me as the sort of thing you might have an interest in." He paused, listening. "No. No catch, nothing up my sleeve . . . . Sure, for once in my career. Do you want to go or not?"

Pausing once again, he reached for a file on his desk, dragging it over and flipping it open. "I've got the dates right here. It's three weeks in the region itself, with three days of travel time on either end. . . . At this point? There's still a lot of structures being rebuilt . . . No, he wouldn't be able to use alchemy. . . . All right. I'll keep you updated as to the details. . . . Right."

Dropping the receiver back into its cradle, Roy sat back in his chair, scowling. "He said he'd talk to Alphonse and get back to me, but you'd think he'd drop the sarcasm and snippy attitude when he grew up a little more," he muttered.

"People have said the same of you, sir," Riza answered quietly, her gaze still focussed on her work. Across the room, entering in time to catch her remark, Havoc and Breda smothered snickers, with not a great deal of success. Roy shot her a half-hearted glower, the irritation behind it smoothed over somewhat by the fact that a smile was trying to make itself visible on his face.

"Putting that aside for the moment, has there been any further news on that intel we received this morning?" he asked, quickly arranging his expression back to something neutral as Fuery entered. "About the possible situation in the North?"

Fuery shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm having trouble getting through to Lieutenant Karley at Briggs. I'm having to set up a patch through a secure line at the North City headquarters, but there's a snowstorm in the area that's causing trouble with the signal." He shrugged helplessly. "By my best guess, I won't get an answer until the weather clears. Tomorrow, at the latest."

"That's all right; even if they _were_ to attack Briggs, I have no doubt that General Armstrong would be able to hold them off." Roy shrugged easily, the very picture of a man who is supremely unconcerned. "She's proved herself time and again to be a difficult person to defeat."

"Assuming there actually _is_ trouble in the area," Breda pointed out. "It's not unheard of for terrorists to leak false information to the authorities, just to send them running in the wrong direction. There might not even be any attack planned at all."

Riza folded her arms on top of her desk, looking up at the redheaded man. "My source wouldn't pass me false information," she said, though her tone was more matter-of-fact than chiding. "His own sources are too well-informed for that. Unless you think he has reason to lie?"

Breda shook his head. "I'm not saying that. I just think we should make sure that all the possible angles here are covered."

Roy spoke up again, his tone calm but firm. "For now, we'll have to operate under the assumption that the information from Hawkeye's source is accurate; it always has been before. That's all we can do, until we manage to get in touch with Briggs."

Across the room, the door opened, a boy no older than eleven easing inside. He wore no uniform, though he was dressed smartly; stopping just inside, he tugged the narrow bill of his newsboy cap in Roy's direction. "Sorry if I'm interrupting, sir; mail call."

"Go ahead, Cameron."

Havoc, quiet until now, got to his feet. "Just throwing this out there, Boss, but . . . maybe if we went back and talked to Hawkeye's source? Maybe there's a bit of information or two that it was too risky to put in writing, and they're waiting for extra contact."

Smiling shyly as he dug a packet of envelopes from his bag, Cameron held them out to Riza. "Afternoon, Lieutenant," he said quietly, so as not to interrupt the conversation. "Is your dog here today?"

Setting the stack of mail to one side, Riza passed the boy a bone-shaped dog biscuit, smiling in return. "He's over under Fuery's desk; just watch you don't get in the Master Sergeant's way."

"Yes, ma'am."

"It can't hurt, but Hawkeye will have to be the one to go back and talk to them," Roy was saying. "It's her source. That being said, it will have to wait until tomorrow. To go any time today would deviate from routine; if it comes under scrutiny, it will only cause suspicion." His dark eyes glanced over at his adjutant. "Catch all that?"

She nodded, skimming through the mail, sorting into piles by addressee. "Every word, sir. I'll get in touch with them first thing tomorrow morning." Three for Roy, one each for her, Havoc, and Breda, and two for Fuery. Gathering the envelopes, she got to her feet.

"Excellent." Taking the envelopes that Riza passed him, Roy sat back in his chair again. "That's all we can do for now, unless Fuery miraculously gets through."

Mail distributed, Riza turned back to her desk, opening her own envelope as she went. No return address or stamp, but that wasn't unusual if the correspondence was sent from within the military itself. Inside was a folded piece of plain white paper, the words scrolling across it neatly typed. Frowning, she pulled it out; a letter?

_My dear Riza:_

_It is such a pleasure to finally get in contact with you after all these years. Believe me when I say I have been an admirer of yours for some time now, of your personal strength and strong moral compass. To not only survive the events that you have, but to flourish in the aftermath, is nothing short of commendable._

Pausing in front of her desk, drawn eyebrows forming a deep furrow in her forehead, Riza looked back to the front of the envelope. Who was this from? Her name on the front yielded no answers; it, too, was typed, with no handwriting for possible identification. Confused, and mildly concerned, she looked back to the letter itself.

_Afraid I must keep this particular letter brief, my dear. It was simply meant to notify you of my presence, that I'm here and that you will certainly be hearing from me again. I promise you that much. Until then, I would ask that you keep the token I've enclosed, as a reminder. _

Token . . . . Opening the envelope, Riza peeked inside, catching a glimpse of dusty green. Setting the letter aside, she reached into the envelope —

"Hawkeye?" Her gaze rose abruptly to find Roy watching her, one eyebrow cocked quizzically. "Everything all right?"

Her immediate instinct was to show him the letter, show him this bizarre thing . . . but no. She had to close down, temporarily, compartmentalize this so that if it were something dangerous, he and the others wouldn't be in jeopardy. "Yes, sir, everything's fine. It's just a letter."

For a long moment, he simply looked back at her, dark eyes gauging whether or not she had anything else to say. In that moment, Riza broke eye contact, moving around her desk to resume her seat, completely calm. In her peripheral, she was aware of him, still staring, for another few seconds before he gave up. Not that he couldn't attempt to pry it out of her later, if he wanted.

Putting her overprotective leader/lover out of her mind, Riza returned her attention to the thing inside the envelope. All that fell into her palm when she shook it out was a slim green leaf from some unidentified plant, withered and dried to a paper-like texture.

Feeling more confused than ever, and more than a little irritated with the apparent pointlessness of it all, she turned back to the letter itself. Whoever had signed it was going to be the first person she tracked down in a demand for answers.

Yet the moment her eyes found the signature, those thoughts vanished, as did any emotion except shock. Suddenly, Riza was very glad for the fact that she was sitting down.


	2. Suckerpunch

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who has so far reviewed, favourited, or followed this story! You made the first week a rousing success._

_I do not own FMA._

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**Chapter Two - Suckerpunch**

HOMETOWN APARTMENTS

DECEMBER 8, 1:30 P.M.

His own little encampment was not unlike Lieutenant Hawkeye's apartment, he mused, closing the door behind himself. At the very most, it was utilitarian; so much could only be expected of low-rent temporary housing, and he didn't dare spring for nicer accommodations. Not now. Once his work in this city was finished, _then_ he would move on, find a nice house in some quiet little backwater, and live out his days in peaceful anonymity.

Not so with the Lieutenant, not by the time he was done with her.

Pausing at the door just long enough to remove his shoes and coat, the man crossed to the heavy steamer trunk in the far corner. It was the work of two minutes to shed his military uniform and replace it with dark pants and a cream-coloured shirt from the chest. How anyone managed to wear that blue-and-silver annoyance for hours and days on end escaped him; he could certainly never do it.

Stretching languidly, he turned toward the rickety writing desk that stood against the wall, under the window. Lying atop it were several scribbled-upon pages; notes taken in point form. The man settled himself in the chair, beginning to sift through it all.

For the most part, many of the notes were repetitive. "You certainly are a creature of habit, Riza dear," the man tsked. "Not good, for a soldier. It makes you far too predictable. Up at five in the morning, out the door anywhere between six and six-thirty, always to the office no later than seven."

He tilted his head to one side. "Orderly and efficient describe you well. Businesslike. Respectful, even deferential. The perfect model of perfect behaviour." A tiny smile quirked the corner of his mouth. "Except for that nasty bit of business with your commander's coup d'état, of course, though that's utterly understandable.

"And speaking of . . . ." He shuffled through the pages, laying them out in a single layer across the desk. His fingers touched a line of writing on one, then another on a second page, a third on another, all saying the same thing: _appears increasingly close to Mustang._ "How you must enjoy your time with your commanding officer . . . ."

Leaning back in his chair, the man rubbed his chin in thought. From all he had observed, the Lieutenant and her Colonel certainly shared a cozy relationship. Of course, he had no photographic evidence, but he could hardly follow two people such as them around with a camera. They were far too vigilant for that, both for themselves and each other.

Too bad, really: a photograph was worth a thousand words on the subject of fraternization, and he would love to be a fly on the wall in a disciplinary hearing.

Lifting his arm, he checked the watch on his wrist: one-thirty in the afternoon. That left three hours before he would leave again to set up his vigil across from his target's apartment. There was, of course, no guarantee that she would be leaving the office at the normal time of five o'clock, not with her superior's work habits, but it was best to be prepared.

So, in the name of preparation, the man rose from the desk chair and turned toward the bed for a catnap.

* * *

EAST CITY MILITARY HEADQUARTERS

DECEMBER 8, 1:30 P.M.

Riza stared at the paper in front of her, pen held ready to write, though her brain wouldn't process what words should be used. It wasn't as though this particular form were anything new or unexplained: it was a simple manpower report for the last month. Hours put in, both regular and overtime, supplies used up and ordered, any sick or personal days taken . . . .

The daily reports needed to fill out such a form sat to her left, neatly stacked by date for the past thirty days. Next to them was a scratchpad, ready to record the information needed for the form . . . right, she had to get the information from the daily reports first, _then_ enter it into the appropriate slots on the manpower report form.

Giving her head a minuscule shake, Riza took the first file off the top of the daily report stack, opened it, and pulled the scratchpad closer. She was more focussed than this; she'd done this exact report once a month for the past eight years. She knew what she was doing.

Nearly twenty-four hours, and that letter still had her distracted

A hoax, she had at last decided, after staring at the signature affixed to it. A ruse. A prank designed to throw her off-balance. She had put the thing in the bottom drawer of her desk; if it was a prank, it was one made in exceedingly poor taste. She would hold onto the letter, and when or if the person responsible came forward, she would threaten disciplinary action. Just threaten: it may have been in poor taste, but there was no need to cost someone a job.

The fact that it had arrived with the daily mail call, and had been devoid of a stamp or postmark, pointed to the conclusion that the sender was military, and contacting her from within the East City Headquarters itself. Something not unheard of, though usually for the purposes of file and document delivery.

"Hawkeye?"

She looked up expectantly, putting her thoughts aside. Roy was watching her, his chin propped in one hand, one eyebrow lifted curiously. "You've been staring at your desk for about five minutes now. Everything okay?"

Letting her lips twitch into a smile — albeit a slightly automatic one — Riza evenly returned his gaze. "Yes, sir."

Giving vent to a near-exasperated sigh, Roy dropped his hand to the desk, the air of curiosity being replaced with a patient, serious look. "You never just stare off into space without a reason; any time you do, something's bothering you. You were staring into space, ergo, something's bothering you. What is it?"

Riza's gaze slid to the cluster of four desks across the room, finding them mercifully empty. Of course, Roy wouldn't press her for information like this if anyone were around. Nevertheless, there was no need to drag him into this particular personal problem.

"My mind is elsewhere, sir, that's all," she hedged, being sure to make eye contact. If she didn't, he would know for sure she wasn't telling the entire truth. "There's a lot going on right now that has to be dealt with, and doing that has me thinking a little harder than usual."

He wavered visibly on the verge of accepting what she'd told him. ". . . . You'd tell me if there was something wrong?" Riza nodded, almost holding her breath as she waited.

Finally, with an acknowledging nod, Roy's attention returned to his own work, and Riza suppressed a sigh of relief. He could be so stubborn in rooting out the truth — especially when it came to those close to him — that it was nothing short of a miracle he'd let this one go. She couldn't show him the letter, not with that name signed at the bottom.

Returning to her work, she pushed her thoughts to one side, focussing on the monotonous task of finding the information for the manpower report. This was to be signed by Roy before the end of the day, and delivered to the Personnel Affairs department first thing in the morning; she had to achieve some level of concentration to complete it before —

Across the room, the telephone on Roy's desk rang. Clamping down firmly on her own sense of discipline, Riza kept her eyes on the paperwork in front of her, though she kept half an ear on the conversation across the room.

"Colonel Mustang." A pause, then a frown in his next words. "That's right . . . . She's right here. Hold on." She was already looking up by the time he called her name. Wordlessly, he pointed to the receiver.

Apparently, she was destined not to finish this report on time, she thought dryly. Getting to her feet, she crossed to Roy's desk, speaking quietly. "Any idea who it is?"

He shook his head, though his expression was grim. "Whoever it is, the guy sounds serious," he muttered.

A man calling the office, and asking for her personally? Riza would have frowned but for the sudden flip her stomach performed. Could this be the same person who'd sent her that strange letter, calling to rub it in? Lifting the receiver to her ear, she took a deep breath.

"This is Lieutenant Hawkeye."

"_Good afternoon, Lieutenant_." As Roy had said, the man on the other end sounded serious, though more in a businesslike sense. "_My name is Master Sergeant Reese; I'm with the military police_."

So not her mysterious letter-writer. "I see. And to what do I owe the pleasure, Master Sergeant?"

"_Not much involved that's very pleasing, ma'am. Have you ever met a man named Eric Nickelson, or his wife Marian?_"

Now her frown chose to make itself felt, along with a growing sense of dread centred in her chest. "Yes, I have. Has one of them done something wrong?"

There was a quiet sigh. "_As far as we can tell, the only thing they did was be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Their shop on the corner of Third and Barker . . . I'm going to need you to meet me there, Lieutenant._"

She was aware, on the edge of her peripheral vision, of Roy watching her, taking in every detail of her expression or movements. When she turned to look at him, he reached out, brushing his fingers against the back of her hand in a silent gesture of support. "I can be there in twenty minutes," she said solemnly.

* * *

Take away the milling civilians, the blue police blockades, the ambulance to one side, and the serious-faced men in uniform, and there would appear to be nothing wrong with the front of the Nickelsons' shop. No broken glass, no blood spattered every whichway, no bullet holes like Riza had been expecting.

"He didn't give you any indication what this was about?" Roy asked quietly, dark eyes flicking from place to place, taking in the scene before him.

"Nothing at all." Dread was forming a hard knot in Riza's chest the longer she looked at the miniature chaos in front of the shop. This was looking too much like so many other crime scenes for her liking. Steeling herself, assuming her 'soldier's face,' she reached for the door handle. "Let's find out what we've got."

Exiting the car, she waited for Roy to join her before they both crossed the street, stopping just inside the blue wooden blockades; one of the military police watched them approach, and saluted. "Afternoon, Colonel; Lieutenant. Master Sergeant Reese, at your service."

Both of them saluted in return, though only Riza spoke. "What can you tell us?"

Folding his hands behind his back, the Master Sergeant settled into a decidedly business-like stance. "From what we've been able to ascertain so far, sir, it looks like a robbery gone bad. Mrs. Nickelson reports that a man in a military uniform walked into the shop, pulled a gun, and held it to her husband's head. She was in the back, looking through the serving window to the front. She was too far away to hear what the man or her husband said — she assumes he demanded money and that Mr. Nickelson said no — but within seconds, the gunman pulled the trigger."

Riza's stomach jolted sickeningly; her jaw clenched reflexively. ". . . What then?"

Shifting slightly, betraying his discomfort, Reese gave her an apologetic look. "That's where it gets strange, sir. The gunman pointed his weapon toward Mrs. Nickelson, but didn't fire. According to her, he gave a short, alpha-numeric sequence, turned, and left."

"I see. And the sequence?"

Reese fished in a pocket of his jacket, producing a small notepad and flipping through a few of the pages. "Uh . . . . Alpha-Victor-three-three-nine-two-five-dash-one-one." He looked up. "Does that mean anything to you?"

Shaking her head, Riza mentally filed the sequence away. "I'm sorry; no. But I'd like to speak with Mrs. Nickelson, if I may. I doubt she'd say no to a friendly face right now."

"Of course, sir. Please; follow me."

He led them to the ambulance, circled by stiff-backed MPs, forming a living barrier between the vehicle and the people standing about like an audience with a warped sense of entertainment. Reese stopped outside the cordon, allowing Roy and Riza to slip past.

Marian was seated on the rear fender of the ambulance, wrapped in a soft grey blanket and staring blankly at the ground. Her hair was falling out of its neat bun, no doubt the result of her running her fingers through it in agitation. Her expression was blank and lost, shining trails on her cheeks showing where the tears had flowed.

Riza put a hand out, her fingers brushing against Roy's chest. He stopped just inside the police line, allowing her to continue on alone; close as they were, he knew when to let her handle something on her own. Easing down to sit next to the motionless woman on the fender, Riza put a gentle hand on her arm.

"Marian?"

As though in a daze, the older woman looked up, her eyes taking long seconds to focus on the blonde Lieutenant's face. "Riza, dear . . . ." Her tone was almost puzzled, though faint and absent-minded. ". . . You didn't bring little Hayate . . . ."

". . . No, not today." Watching the other closely, Riza braced herself emotionally. "Marian, the police told me what happened. To Eric. Are you all right?"

"Eric . . . ." The lost look in Marian's eyes dissolved into nothing short of despair. Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes. "He shot Eric. He didn't even do anything . . . ."

Willing herself not to cry — not to break down in public — Riza inched closer, gently gripping the woman's shoulders. "Marian, I know it's hard, but I need you to try and picture the gunman. Can you describe him to me?"

Head shaking back and forth, Marian tugged the blanket closer around her frame. "No . . . he wore a mask."

"Can you describe the gun?"

She shrugged helplessly. "Big. Silver. Very noisy."

"Good." Riza smiled encouragingly. "Let's see if we can't narrow it down. When you say 'silver,' do you mean shiny silver or dull silver?"

Marian frowned in thought. ". . . Dull. And . . . it was a revolver. I remember seeing the chamber move as he prepared to fire." She looked up as Riza's smile disappeared. "What — is that bad?"

"It means there are no shell casings that could lead back to the weapon." Making sure she had eye contact, Riza's expression settled into pure determination. "Even so, I promise you that whoever did this won't go unpunished. You have my word on that."

Leaning forward wordlessly, Marian wrapped the younger woman in a hug that Riza gladly returned. They remained that way for a long moment, before Reese and another officer eased inside the cordon, the former quietly clearing his throat.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Lieutenant, but I've been ordered to escort Mrs. Nickelson home." He gestured to his companion. "Corporal Branson will take you through the crime scene, if you wish."

Riza got to her feet, helping Marian to do the same. "Will you be all right?" A nod. "You know you can call me for anything, at any time."

Roy stepped forward. "The same goes for me, ma'am. Anything you need from either of us is at your disposal."

The smile Marian offered them was wan, but sincere. "Thank you, you two." With her hand tucked into the crook of Reese's elbow for support, the blanket left abandoned on the ambulance fender, she shuffled off out of sight; Riza watched her go, brows drawn together in concern and sympathy, before turning to follow Corporal Branson.

* * *

He was in the process of preparing dinner when sound began issuing from the receiver across the room on his desk. No words, simply the sounds of a closing door, then footsteps. The man abruptly left his half-completed sandwich on the counter, moving to a seat in the desk chair. His arms folded on the surface, he listened intently.

"Not the best day we've ever had," a deep male voice said, almost too casually.

Lieutenant Hawkeye's reply was of dry humour, weariness evident in her tone. "Your talent for understatements is surpassed only by your skill with alchemy."

"Thanks for the incredibly-well-hidden compliment."

The man connected the receiver to his recording apparatus, setting the tape rolling before moving back to the counter to finish assembling his sandwich, still listening to the conversation. He smiled tightly; the practice of espionage worked up such an appetite . . . .

* * *

Draping his coat over the back of a kitchen chair, Roy kept his gaze on the blonde woman focussed on detaching the leash from her dog's collar. Hayate had been extremely well-behaved since his mistress had returned from the crime scene, staying close on her heels for the remainder of day. Even now, he sat quietly on the floor, dark eyes following her every move.

"I have to admit, I'm a little concerned," Roy commented, watching as Riza straightened to hang the leash from a peg by the door. "You're one of the strongest people I know, but you can't tell me that what we saw today didn't get to you."

Undoing the snaps of her uniform jacket, Riza let it slip from her shoulders as she crossed the room toward him. "I never said anything of the sort," she pointed out, laying it beside his over the top of the chair. "But there wasn't going to be much good done by returning to the office as an emotional wreck and having everyone fuss over me."

He rolled his eyes skyward in a bid for patience. "Then why did you even go _back_ to the office? I said you could take the rest of the day off if you needed to." He reached out as she made to move past him, catching her around the shoulders and pulling her close against his chest.

"Stubborn woman," he muttered, resting his chin on top of her head. Riza's arms circled his chest as she let out a long breath. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm all right. Conflicted, mostly." She lifted her head to look up at him, smiling faintly. "On the one hand, I'm glad I don't have to be alone right now, but on the other, I know that Marian is." What little of a smile she had disappeared. "Some kind of complicated survivors' guilt."

Reaching up to settle his fingers against the back of her head, Roy leaned in to press a sympathetic kiss to her forehead. "Hey, you've dealt with worse than this. You told Marian we'd get to the bottom of this, and that's exactly what we'll do." He smiled. "If there's one thing I know, it's that you never _ever_ cross Riza Hawkeye."

At last returning a genuine smile, Riza lifted a hand to lightly swat his shoulder. "And if there's one thing _I_ know, it's not to follow your example in how to deal with someone I put time and effort into tracking down. I'm not entirely sure I can pull off batshit-crazy like you can."

Roy's eyes narrowed in mock anger. "That was _one time_, and I'll remind you that you completely lost it when you thought I'd been killed." The glare disappeared. "I guess neither of us is perfect."

"Of course not. It's a physical impossibility." Brown eyes studied him for a moment before softening. "All the same, thank you for going with me. I'm sure it did Marian good to see another friendly face among all the officers, not to mention the spectators."

"You'd do the same for me," he said gently, fingers massaging soothing circles on the back of her neck. "But I have to wonder: why Eric?"

Shaking her head, Riza dropped her gaze, staring off into the middle distance. "I wish I knew. He was well-liked within the neighbourhood, no enemies that I'm aware of . . . not so much as a parking ticket on his record. I know he seemed like an old grouch a lot of the time, but he really was a smart, sharp, decent man." Abruptly, her brow furrowed. ". . . He was also extremely well-informed."

"And he did recently pass information to you," Roy said slowly, concern beginning to build behind his gaze. "_Sensitive_ information, too. You think one of his sources could have done this?"

Expression suddenly grim, Riza disentangled herself from his embrace, heading for the telephone on the kitchen counter. "I'm not ruling it out." Lifting the receiver to her ear, she dialled as she spoke. "The hard part is going to be finding out who his sources were; I never met any of them."

Folding his arms across his chest, still leaning against the table, Roy watched her. "And you plan to find out how, exactly?"

She shot him a smirk over her shoulder, the gesture not quite reaching her eyes. "Six degrees of separation or less," she said simply. "This isn't over. Not by a long shot."


	3. Up in Smoke

_A/N: Time for Chapter Three! School is over for me now, so all that's left is to find a job . . . and while I'm waiting for interviews, that should leave me lots of time to write. Also, watch for the cover illustration, coming soon!_

_I do not own FMA._

* * *

**Chapter Three - Up In Smoke**

His apartment lay dark around him, and eerily quiet. The only noise came from the taping device, quietly whirring as the wheels slowly turned, feeding the film around the spools. The man sat in the wooden chair before it, eyes locked on the receiver, listening for any small sound from the devices he had placed around Lieutenant Hawkeye's apartment.

The last bit of sound to come through had been two hours ago, a brief series of squeaks from bedsprings as they accepted the weight of two bodies settling in for a night of rest. At least, he assumed there were two; he had not heard Mustang bid his aide good night, let alone leave.

The man had hoped briefly that, once the lights were out, there would at last be some evidence of the goings-on in their secret relationship. Not tonight, it seemed; what sort of person wanted something as madcap and exhilarating as sex on the same day as finding out about a friend's murder?

Still, there remained the possibility of sleepy, incriminating murmurings from either of them, as well as the fact that to all auditory appearances, Mustang and his only female subordinate were in bed together. So here he remained, waiting and ever watchful for them to put the barest edge of a toe any further over the line. Each audio tape recorded only three hours of material; he had to be awake to change it when the time came.

* * *

RIZA'S APARTMENT

DECEMBER 9, 0415 HOURS

Her boots scuffed lightly against the clean tiled floor of the Barker Street Bakery and Cafe, the soft scrape loud and echoing in her ears. Wisps of pearly grey fog swirled through the room, sucking the colour out of every surface and making her skin clammy where it made contact. Unease crept through Riza's stomach, her shoulders rising in tension at the silence and her surroundings.

The shop was just as it always had been, except for the apparent lack of livelihood it always carried. Stepping close to the register, she stood straighter, trying to see through the serving window into the back kitchen area. "Marian?" Her voice, unlike her footsteps, was flat and didn't seem to carry, as though she were trapped inside some soundproof box. "Eric? Is anyone —"

Looking down, at the floor behind the counter, she cut herself off, staring. Lying on the tiles, one arm stretched out underneath his head and lying in a pool of his own shockingly red blood, was Eric Nickelson.

She hesitated for only the barest second before turning and bolting for the open end of the counter a few feet away. Her boots squeaked loudly on the floor as she made the turn, one hand on the polished stone countertop, her heartbeat loud and frantic in her ears. And in the three seconds it took to come back into view of Eric, the only thing left of him was a chalk outline and a puddle of rapidly congealing blood where his head had lain.

"What the . . . ."

Moving forward, hesitant, Riza stared at the outline showing the approximate shape her friend's body had landed in. His legs had been twisted; he had been spun by the force of the bullet to land face-down away from his attacker, yet his feet had remained on the spot. His right arm was stretched out past his head, the other no doubt tucked under his chest or shoulder.

Riza backed up a step, suddenly not able to be quite so close. Her hand covered her mouth in dismay at the scene, just as she had seen it that afternoon, minus the chill fog and lack of any colour besides the red of the blood.

Her back fetched up against something solid and warm; a glance over her shoulder revealed it to be Roy. His hands clasped her shoulders, nose pressing against the clipped-up sweep of her blonde hair. "Not the sort of day you had in mind when you got up this morning," he murmured softly, fingers tightening briefly in a sympathetic squeeze.

Riza almost stepped away, away from such a display of familiarity, before deciding she didn't care. Roy was very capable of restraining himself until the two of them had complete privacy; any gesture on his part now would merely be seen as comforting her.

"Not at all," she agreed, just as quietly, turning her gaze back to the chalk outline. "I don't understand. Why Eric? What did he ever do to anyone?"

Roy's voice was low in her ear, for her alone. "I don't know what to tell you."

Unable to look at the evidence of such violence anymore, Riza turned to face him. His arms slid around her shoulders with practiced ease, drawing her close to his chest and holding her there even as she buried her face in the lapels of his black overcoat. "It's okay," he murmured, his breath soft and warm in her ear. "It's okay. I've got you."

Riza closed her eyes, soaking in his touch, letting it creep toward the cold knot in the centre of her chest. A deep breath brought his scent with it, and she could almost feel each individual muscle relaxing again. The weight of his arms across her shoulders was more than welcome, a weight she found that she enjoyed more and more. Even the feel of his chest underneath her cheek —

Sirens burst into being around her, without warning. Eyes flashing open, Riza jerked her head up . . . .

Brown eyes stared in confusion at her surroundings. Gone was the mist, the Nickelsons' shop, replaced by her own apartment and darkness. The sirens had faded and changed in pitch to the ringing of her telephone across the room. _A dream,_ she thought irritably. _A dream of everything I saw yesterday._

"If you don't pick up the phone," Roy muttered, eyes closed and brow furrowed in a scowl, "I'm going to take the gun that's under your pillow and shoot it myself."

His arms were around her, holding her against his chest; just as he had been in her dream. Perhaps some reality had seeped in, along with the memory. Gently extricating herself from him, Riza tossed back her covers and got up.

The clock on her nightstand read four-seventeen; another forty-odd minutes, and she would have been awake anyway. Scooping up the receiver on its sixth ring, she brought it to her ear, speaking quietly. "Hello?"

_"Morning, sunshine_." The voice on the other end sounded dragged out and frustrated. "_Here's an idea: next time you have me up all night chasing down a lead for you, you at least get me a date with somebody cute to make up for it._"

Leaning against the counter, Riza smiled. "I'll keep that in mind," she said dryly. "What did you find out?"

Rebecca huffed a sigh. "_For an innocent old man, this Nickelson guy was pretty nosy. Half the people I talked to knew him by name, and another half of those had met him face-to-face. And not just to buy a cup of coffee, either; for information sharing. How much were you paying him for your intel?_"

"Nothing." Riza reached for the notepad and pen she kept beside the phone. "Though not for lack of trying. I was under the impression that anything he shared with me, he'd heard from people in the shop and was just doing his civic duty in reporting the serious stuff."

There was a quiet snort of derision from the other woman. "_You could _not_ be more wrong; he was _way_ too well-informed for that to be the case._" She sighed again. "_Unfortunately, any of the sources I spoke with are keeping tight-lipped, even more so than usual. They're all afraid that what happened to Nickelson will happen to them if they talk._"

Riza's lips formed a thin line, not out of disapproval, but disappointment. "So they wouldn't tell you anything."

"_I didn't say that_," Rebecca quipped. "_I said that they were tight-lipped, not that they were silent._" There was a rustling of paper. "_There was one name that kept cropping up with everyone I talked to. He's not pegged as the guy who fired the shot, but it's rumoured he might know who did._"

"At this point, I'll take whatever I can get," Riza answered. "What's his name?"

"_Danford Morser. He's the friend of one of my contacts. Want me to have him get in touch with you?_"

Standing straight, Riza looked back over her shoulder; Roy was watching her from the bed. "Absolutely," she said, mouth curving in a small, victorious smile.

* * *

EAST CITY SOUTHERN DISTRICT

DECEMBER 9, 1824 HOURS

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, lip twisting. How could he have forgotten? "We're leaving for Ishval in two days." Stopping outside the darkened bar, Roy reached up to run a frustrated hand back through his hair. It had been a long day, and it wasn't over yet. "Well, this is embarrassing."

"I'm sorry, sir, I should have remembered." Her expression was a near mirror of his; disapproval not at him, but at herself. "I became so wrapped up in the investigation that the Ishval mission escaped my mind."

"Relax, you're not the only one that forgot," he said, eyeing the faded sign swinging overhead in the evening breeze. "Let's just focus on this for now, and we'll deal with the other when we get the chance." He knocked twice, waiting through the brief pause that followed before a tiny window in the door slid aside, a pair of blue eyes peering out.

"Took the two of you long enough," Havoc said, mock-scoldingly. The tiny window closed, the door opening a moment later to reveal the blond Second Lieutenant. Arms folded, he smirked at his two superiors and pointed to Riza's uniform jacket. "Don't tell me: Hawkeye couldn't decide on an outfit, right?"

"On the contrary: we got lost on the way here and the Colonel wouldn't stop to ask for directions," Riza countered calmly, taking a step inside. Beside her, Roy snorted quietly in mild humour as he followed suit and closed the door behind himself. "Why don't we get down to business? Then no one's here longer than they have to be."

"I can agree to that," Breda put in, folding his arms on the tabletop as they approached. "But before we do, there's a little surprise for you, Boss." Pausing only long enough for Roy to lift a quizzical eyebrow, he gave a sharp whistle. "Hey! You can come out now; they're here!"

Stepping around the corner from a hallway to the back room, Falman smiled, lifting one hand in a wave. "Good evening, Colonel; Lieutenant. It's been a while."

Breaking into a grin, Roy leaned across the table to shake hands with the other man. "I'll say. What brings you here? I thought the Northern Wall of Briggs was keeping you on ice up north."

"I'm . . . 'on loan,' shall we say." Falman placed a file on the table, sobering. "General Armstrong came into some intelligence regarding Ishval recently that she felt you should have. Since delivering it through official channels would be risky, I was ordered to bring it to you in East City. When it was discovered you'd be heading to Ishval within the week, my orders were revised to include accompanying you."

Taking the file, Roy opened it as he sat down, scanning it briefly. "A happy coincidence, then; we got some intel this week ourselves that the General might be interested in." He looked up. "I don't suppose you've got a way to get information back to her if you need to?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Hawkeye will give you the information once we're done here. In the meantime, why don't you share what you've got with everyone?"

Settling into a chair, Falman sat straight as perfectly professional as ever. "Major Miles and his . . . 'assistant,' have reported both good news and bad news. First of all, the bad news is that the reconstruction effort has recently suffered a major setback. Three stockpiles of timber for building supports caught fire in a week, and were reduced to ash and cinders."

Riza's brow furrowed. "That seems hardly coincidental. Are they calling it arson?"

Nodding, Falman folded his hands on the tabletop. "Everyone else is of the same mind as you, Lieutenant. However, the Ishvalan leadership refuses to believe that any of their own people could be responsible. According to them, all Ishvalans are more than happy to have their homeland restored, to have Amestris be making such a strong effort toward restitution. They wouldn't do anything to jeopardize that."

"Which is a nice way of saying that they think this is the work of some disgruntled Amestrian soldier that doesn't agree with his orders," Breda muttered darkly.

Fuery was frowning, staring at the table deep in thought. "If there's ashes left . . . couldn't an alchemist regenerate the wood to the way it was before?" he said, looking up to his Colonel for confirmation.

But Roy was shaking his head by the word 'regenerate.' "Even if the Ishvalans didn't abhor the idea of alchemy," he said, tone disappointed, "there's already been a chemical change wrought. Those are practically impossible to reverse. Wood ash is mostly calcium carbonate; there's no way it could be transformed back into structurally sound timber."

Havoc cast Falman an imploring look. "This good news you mentioned better be good."

"Right." Breaking into a small smile, Falman leaned forward, lowering his voice. "We received word through Major Miles that some members of the Ishvalan remnant have been dropping hints that they may be open to starting a new trade route."

Breda waited half a beat before saying. ". . . And? Their country is already annexed to ours. How much more of a trade route do we need?"

"Not between us and them. Between Amestris and Xing."

Roy's eyebrows shot upward, though he remained otherwise still. "Is that so . . . ." Lacing his fingers together, he rested his chin on top of them, keeping his face carefully neutral. "And how exactly do they plan to pull this off?"

Reaching across, Falman picked up the file he'd delivered, flipping open to the third page. "According to what Miles' 'assistant,' told us, they were approached by a group of Ishvalans who spent several years after the war living in the ruins of Xerxes." Recognition flashed in Breda's eyes, his attention becoming much more focussed on the conversation. "They're experienced at crossing the desert, especially with a layover point like Xerxes sitting right in the middle of a potential route. And it would open up any number of commercial opportunities for both Amestris and Xing."

He pushed the file back toward Roy. "It was General Armstrong's thought that you should be the one to present this to Führer-President Grumman, given that —" He hesitated. "Well . . . there's no delicate way to put it, sir. You were a favourite of his for years. You probably still are."

"You say that like friends in high places are a bad thing," Roy countered. "And speaking of that . . . ." He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "This trade route could have a secondary purpose. If that Ling kid gains the Xingese throne like he plans, it'd be a point gained for us. He's not the type to forget his allies; I'm sure he sees the value of a friendly alliance with Amestris."

Falman smiled tightly. "General Armstrong thought you might see it that way."

Looking to Riza, Roy frowned thoughtfully. "Remind me to ask Alphonse about his girlfriend's experience in crossing the Eastern desert when we see him," he said. "Might not hurt to have a second opinion about how easy or difficult it is."

"Duly noted," she answered dutifully.

Havoc's eyes flicked toward Roy, watching him closely. "What do you mean 'when we see him?'" he said slowly. "You know something you're not sharing, Boss?"

"Several somethings, but none of which have any bearing in this conversation." Roy smirked. "All except one something. Hawkeye and I extended an invitation to the Elric brothers to join us on our latest trip to Ishval; I'm about ninety percent sure he'll accept. He just has to call and confirm."

Fuery beamed. "Hey, that's great! It's been a while since we saw them last."

"You sure you can handle that, Boss?" Breda grinned. "You can't make short jokes anymore; you might have to actually be nice to the kid."

"He's not so much a kid anymore, either," Roy shot back. "And I can do without the short jokes; the hardest part is remembering not to call him 'Fullmetal.'"

Havoc winced sympathetically. "Right. I imagine he doesn't like being reminded of —"

The rest of his sentence was either drowned out or cut off by a deafening boom from the bar's kitchen area. The rear wall exploded outward, showering the room in splinters and dust, smoke billowing out on a shockwave that violently shook the room.

All six soldiers instinctively hit the floor. Riza, Havoc, and Roy all kept their heads up, squinting to see past the haze; the former two each had a hand on a side-holstered weapon, ready to draw and fire at a moment's notice. Thin tongues of flame licked at the edges of the shattered walls.

Ears ringing, all other sound severely muffled, Roy glanced to the blonde woman on his left as she rose into a crouch. Riza's hand motioned him to stay put as she moved forward before tapping Havoc on the shoulder. Roy watched them go, moving in half-crouches toward the source of the explosion; in his peripheral vision, he saw Fuery glance his way. A raised hand, palm outward, told the younger man to hold his position.

Riza pulled the high collar of her shirt up over her mouth and nose; Havoc did the same with the sleeve of his jacket over his palm as the two of them disappeared into the curtain of smoke. Getting carefully to his feet with the others, Roy took stock of the rest of the room.

Dust trickled from cracked beams in the ceiling, swirling with the smoke in visible trails in the dying flickers of the tiny fire and streetlamps from the windows. Fuery and Falman looked shaken but unharmed, Breda simply the latter.

Roy coughed as the acrid smell of smoke began invading his lungs. "Falman, get outside; someone's bound to have heard the explosion and show up." His voice sounded far away, like his ears were full of cotton balls. "Military police won't be far behind."

Falman's voice was even fainter. "What should I tell them?"

"Nothing they don't need to know. Just the basics, and if they push it, tell them I'll talk to them personally." He waved a hand, starting for the door to the back. "Go on, get moving. Fuery, Breda; get that file out of here and out of sight before —"

With a creak that was loud even to his partially deafened ears, a decorated column to the side detached from its place on the ceiling, slowly toppling sideways. Roy felt his eyes widen, reaching out toward Fuery. Time seemed to stretch, dragging on until he could finally grab the young man's jacket collar, yanking him backward.

The column still grazed his shoulder, jarring his glasses loose from his face, but it was suddenly the lesser of two injuries. Even as Fuery stumbled into him, Roy was aware of Breda falling back to the floor with a shout and the column across his knees.

"Dammit!" he cursed for the second time that night. "Falman, get back here!"

Breda grimaced. "When the MPs show up, they sure as hell better bring an ambulance with 'em," he ground out, teeth clenched tightly together.

Between the two of them, Roy and Falman managed to lift the nearest end of the column just high enough for Breda to pull himself from underneath it. When it dropped back to the floor, Roy was heading for the back room again. "Get him outside!" he barked. "Fuery, you go with them; I want everybody out of here before the whole place comes down."

Pulling his sleeve over his hand, he covered his nose and mouth as Havoc had done, easing through the smoke into the back area of the deserted bar. "Havoc? Hawkeye?"

"Over here, sir!"

Two shadows resolved slowly out of the haze into his two subordinates, waiting by a blackened and twisted stove. Havoc was crouched, peering into what had once been the oven; the metal edges were jagged and glowing dark orange with heat, mangled beyond any hope of repair.

"Looks like someone turned on the gas, and let it build up," he said soberly. Gingerly easing an arm past the slagged edges, he pointed to a few wispy, blackened fragments clinging to an equally charred and delicate string. "My guess, whoever it was jury-rigged a time-delay fuse. A lit cigarette tucked inside a book of matches and left to burn out." Getting to his feet, he shook his head slowly. "The cigarette itself probably wouldn't set off the gas; its too slow-burning. But once it hits the matches, it'd flare up like nobody's business."

"The blast weakened the entire structure," Roy reported grimly. "Fuery and Breda are going to need a hospital; we need to get out before we end up there as well."

"Sure thing, Boss." Havoc's voice was a little too casual, even at half its normal volume. When he stood, the look in his eyes was flat and solemn. "But I think you should see what Hawkeye found first."

"Hawkeye?" He paused when his gaze met hers. Her look was different: she looked guilty.

She lifted one hand, holding out a note. "It was left on the counter just beside the doorway to the main room," she said, looking away to the paper. Written on it were six words in bold block letters.

**ARE YOU READY TO PLAY YET?**


	4. Shaken

_A/N: Who's ready to get super-spookified?_

_I do not own FMA._

* * *

**Chapter Four - Shaken**

ROCKBELL AUTOMAIL, RESEMBOOL  
DECEMBER 10, 10:41 A.M.

He ignored the ringing of the telephone from the main room of the house: ninety percent of the time, anyone calling was looking for Winry or Pinako anyway. Edward had other things to worry about, like finding the rest of his lightweight shirts for the trip to Ishval, and wondering how he was going to keep his automail leg cool enough to function normally.

"Hey, Ed!" Winry hollered from the next room. "Telephone!"

So it was a ten percent call. "Coming!" he shouted back. That was how things worked around here: lots of yelling, lots of noise. Pinako had merely shaken her head with a smile when she first noticed it. He and Winry were natural-born yellers, she'd said, had been that way since they were kids. He suspected she didn't mind, that having a now-boisterous household made up for all the years it had been far too quiet.

Leaving his suitcase open on the bed, Edward moved out into the kitchen, crossing to where Winry waited with one hand over the receiver. "Colonel Bastard calling back?" he guessed. "I told him I'd get back to him once I talked to Al, what's he so impatient for?"

Winry didn't smile. "I don't think he's calling to get an answer," she said quietly. "He sounds pretty worked up, like something happened."

Blond eyebrows drew together in a frown; the only way Mustang would get noticeably worked up is if something had happened to his team . . . particularly Hawkeye. Taking the receiver, Ed brought it to his ear. "Hello?"

"_Guess who._" Sure enough, it was Mustang's voice, but what should have been banter didn't cary any trace of humour. "_I know you're busy, so I'll keep this brief. The Ishval trip has been called off._"

"Is that so." Leaning against the counter, Edward made sure to keep his voice casual. "On account of what? Are they expecting freak rainstorms in the middle of the desert, so you're deciding to stay at home?"

"_We hit a snag with our own plans,_" was the calm answer, Mustang not rising to the bait. "_There was some question as to whether personal security could be assured, so Command pulled the mission until we can get things back on track._"

His frown deepened. "Personal security?" he repeated. "From who, Amestris or the Ishvalans?"

"_Sorry, kid, you're not a State Alchemist anymore. I can't say anything more about it._" Winry had been right; he sounded strange, as though he were worrying over several different things all at once. "_Do you still want to come along, once we get everything sorted out?_"

"Yeah, sure. Sounds like you can use all the help you get."

"_Right. I'll be in touch._" With that, there was a click from the other end of the line, and Mustang was gone. Lip twisting, Edward hung up.

"Well, you were right," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck, mulling over the conversation. "There's definitely something bugging him. He said something about concerns over personal security . . . which can only mean someone's going after them."

Winry folded her arms. "Not exactly the smart thing to do, given what they're capable of. Though I suppose they have their share of enemies." She cocked her head, watching Edward closely. "You're thinking something; what is it?"

He looked up, expression apologetic. "Something you're probably not going to like . . . ."

* * *

EAST CITY MILITARY HOSPITAL  
DECEMBER 10, 1045 HOURS

Hanging up the phone, Roy headed back through the hospital hallways, hands in his pockets and brow furrowed in thought. While it was true that Edward didn't have a security clearance for sensitive information anymore, that hadn't been his only reason for keeping tight-lipped on his explanation. To discuss the problem over an unsecured line was to invite disaster.

Especially when someone was obviously already gunning for his team.

Fighting down the twist in his lip, he slipped through the door into the hospital room and closed it behind himself. "I think I managed to convince him that while there's a security issue to take care of, it's nothing serious," he said, folding his arms as he paced across to take up a spot beside Riza's chair. "With any luck, he'll let it go, but I wouldn't put it past him to try and get information on his own."

Havoc grimaced. "Ed's still got enough friends in the military to get pretty much any intel he wants, especially if he talks to someone like Major Armstrong. Anyone that ever had a soft spot for the Elrics."

"Which is why it's even more important that we keep the attack to ourselves as much as possible," Riza put in quietly. She still held the note they had found in the destroyed kitchen, her hands folded neatly on top of it. Roy's gaze lingered on her a moment, taking in her tense posture and the concerned frown that was furrowing her forehead. The attack from nowhere had certainly shaken her.

"It's going to be hard to do that once people find out we're in the hospital," Fuery said, from his place in one of the room's two beds; Breda occupied the other. Fuery's arm was held in a sling, Breda ordered to keep off his feet for a few days until the bruised tendons healed. "My shoulder's just dislocated. I don't get why they're keeping me overnight when —"

"Because that's what I requested they do," Roy said firmly. "There's someone out there that's clearly trying to toy with us for some reason, and aside from a safehouse, there's not many other places that would be just as secure."

"Barring anyone slipping inside while the nurses' backs are turned," Falman murmured.

Arms folded behind his head, Breda shrugged. "So one of you stays here as a guard. We've all done it before."

Riza got abruptly to her feet, stalking toward the door. "Colonel, could I speak to you for a moment?" Her words were clipped, thanks to her clenched jaw, the hand not clamped around the mysterious note curled into a fist at her side. "In private, if possible."

She was halfway out the door before Roy shook himself out of a state of blank surprise, starting after her. Havoc lifted one eyebrow as he passed. "What's gotten into her, Chief?"

"You guess is as good as mine," he murmured back. "Just . . . wait here until I get back."

Riza moved ahead of him down the hallway toward the stairwell; Roy didn't try to catch up, using the brief walk to study her. Her shoulders were high and tense, as they had been in the room, and she moved with a stiffness that wasn't entirely businesslike. He had thought that it was the attack that had her worked up, though was beginning to second-guess that conclusion; perhaps seeing Breda and Fuery injured was causing it? Fuery in particular was like a younger brother to her, so it stood to reason —

The stairwell door closed behind them, and Riza let out a deep breath. "This is my fault, sir."

Roy stared. ". . . Come again?"

"The explosion at the meeting point: it's my fault, I'm sure of it." She looked up to meet his gaze, faltered for a moment, then pressed on. "I know it sounds unlikely, but I can't shake the feeling that —"

"Unlikely?" he repeated, growing irritated. "It's downright crazy. Riza Hawkeye doesn't plant bombs to blow up her own people! How can you even think something like that?"

She shook her head sharply. "I didn't mean it that way, sir. I just —" She bit her lip, obviously searching for the right words.

Sighing quietly, Roy took a step forward, lowering his voice. "What's gotten into you?" he murmured, dark eyes searching her face for any possible clue. "You've been jumpy as hell ever since the explosion, and now you try to tell me it's your fault? You're starting to get me worried."

He reached out a hand to pull her close, but she avoided him, stepping out of reach. Brown eyes came back to his, bright with annoyance. "I'm telling you it's my fault because it is," she said firmly, before her expression turned guilty. "I haven't . . . . I haven't been entirely forthcoming with . . . certain information."

Dread tried to form a cold knot in his chest; Roy pushed it aside. "Okay . . . . Information like what?"

Riza held up the note. "This wasn't meant for the team in general; it was meant for one specific person. Me." She looked away, beginning to unfold it. "I should have told you earlier, when it started, but you had other things to worry about and I didn't think it would get this serious —"

"Think _what_ would get this serious?" This time, his hands made contact, grasping her shoulders. "Riza, what are you talking about?"

She took another deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Two days ago, I received a letter with the regular mail at the office. I don't know who sent it, or why; it just . . . rambled, mostly. About how I'm good at my job and how I've caught this person's interest. I brushed it off as harmless, some kind of prank. Until I found the note after the bomb went off."

Roy's already present frown deepened. "I thought you seemed preoccupied with that letter," he muttered. "How does the note tie in?"

"There's the part that everyone was meant to see, about being ready to play." Riza looked down at the paper in her hands. "When I unfolded it, however, there was another letter written inside. I only read the first few lines, but it's from the same person that sent the first."

His hands dropped away from her shoulders, and he folded his arms across his chest. "Read it."

Riza glanced up briefly in hesitation, before visibly bracing herself. "_'I'm incredibly disappointed in you, Lieutenant. I thought you were a woman of integrity when it came to keeping your unit well-informed, and here you are keeping secrets. I shouldn't have to tell you that communication is everything in your business._

"_'I'm giving you another chance to right that particular wrong. I'm sure that your Colonel would be highly intrigued to hear about these letters. Just as intrigued as I was to learn about —'_" She broke off, staring at the words.

Roy watched her closely. "What? Learn about what?"

One hand covering her mouth, eyes wide as they stared at the paper, Riza dropped her voice almost to a whisper. "_'—to learn about the nature of the relationship you and he share.'_" She looked up, found his eyes just as wide as hers, and went back to the letter. "_'Believe me when I say that I'll know whether or not you share this information with him, and that if you don't, it will spell an end not just to your career, but his as well._

"_'I've waited long enough for you, Lieutenant. It's either play or watch everything around you crumble.'_"

Roy was silent for a long moment, thinking hard, processing everything the letter had said. "Well, there's no uncertain terms about what he wants, is there," he murmured when it was clear she was finished. He moved to lean back against the wall. "He's got us in a sticky situation."

There was mild surprise in Riza's expression when she looked at him. ". . . Did you say 'us,' sir?"

"Yes, I said 'us,'" he answered firmly. "The letter says he only wants you, but unfortunately for him, he gets me as well." Dark eyes narrowed. "And I won't have you disputing that, understood?"

"Understood." Riza's expression became grave. "Though in the interest of exchanging information, there's one more thing you should know. The letter is signed."

". . . I thought you said you didn't know who sent it."

"I don't. The name doesn't make any sense, unless someone out there has been toying with human transmutation again." Her gaze met his, and for the first time, Roy could see exactly how skittish this entire business was making her. The knot of dread in his chest expanded as she turned the paper toward him, indicating the signature.

"To all appearances, the letters are being sent by my father."

* * *

SOUTH SIDE OF EAST CITY  
DECEMBER 10, 11:00 A.M.

He hated wearing this uniform.

It was itchy, made of stiff fabric that somehow trapped heat while letting cold wind through, and the annoying waist-skirt insisted on getting tangled around his legs. Above all that, however, was the fact that it was of the Amestrian military, an organization he had come to thoroughly despise.

If the uniform had one redeeming quality, it was that it allowed him to pass unhindered into the back room of a public bar. No one questioned a soldier on business, at least not for very long.

The person ahead of him in line moved away from the table, a voice calling "Next!" and the man stepped forward.

Seated behind the table was a short, rotund little man wearing a high-end suit. His over-shined shoes glinted where they rested on the tabletop, a fedora dangling from the toe of one. Examining his fingernails in a bored fashion, the round man didn't even bother to look up. "Welcome to Boardstaff Loans," he said with dry humour. "What can I do for you, sport?"

The man didn't smile. "If I've come to see you, Lyle Boardstaff, I would think it's fairly obvious what I want."

Boardstaff looked up, eyes running once over the uniform before returning to its wearer's face. He smirked. "Business must be picking up, if word has reached the ears of the boys in blue," he said, unconcerned. Leaning back in his chair, he folded his arms behind his head. "What brings you to my cozy little corner of commerce, soldier? In need of a little pre-payday cash?"

"I'm not here for your money," the man answered, voice flat. "I'm not even here to arrest you. I just want a conversation."

Snorting quietly, Boardstaff dropped his feet to the floor, leaving his hat on the table. "Thanks, Officer, but I'm not in a chatty mood. Show yourself out, why don't you."

"I don't think you understand." Taking a gun from its holster at his side, the man hefted it in one hand. "I want a conversation, and I'm going to get one."

Boardstaff held very still, lip twisted in distaste at the sight of the gun. "Demanding, aren't you," he muttered. Lifting one hand, he waved it in dismissal at the others in line, and the two burly bodyguards watching closely from the side of the room. "Sorry, everybody, we're closed until further notice. The officer and I need a private discussion."

The room emptied except for the two of them, and Boardstaff folded his hands on the tabletop. "All right, you wanted to talk. So talk."

"You don't recognize me, do you."

"Should I?" Propping his chin in one hand, the loan shark looked on patiently. "Do I owe you money?" No answer. "Do you owe _me_ money?" When still no answer came, he sighed and sat back in his chair. "Sorry, pal. I meet a lot of people on a day-to-day basis. You must have blended into the crowd. Besides." His eyes took on a hard edge. "I make it a policy never to deal with military types."

The man's grip on the gun didn't waver. "Then it's a good thing I'm not military, Mr. Boardstaff. Tell me: have you ever heard the name Eric Nickelson?"

"Everyone on the fringe has heard of Eric Nickelson, though only just in the last day or so." Boardstaff tsked under his breath. "Poor guy went and got himself whacked by somebody; we hear a bit about that sort of thing."

"Have you heard anything about who the killer might be?"

"You think I'd be sitting in a backwater like this if I did?!" Spreading his hands wide, Boardstaff leaned forward. "That intel's worth a lot to the MPs; they'll take any lead they can get, from what I heard."

"I'm sure they would." The man stood straight, bringing the gun to a more level bearing. "Thank you for the talk, Mr. Boardstaff. That's all the information I needed." There was a click as he released the safety.

Boardstaff drew back, eyes widening. "Whoa, take it easy, pal! I just gave you intel free of charge, didn't even ask for a fee! Least you can do is let me walk out of here!"

The man shrugged. "I'm afraid I told a half-truth. I came here for two reasons: a talk, and a chance to meet with you face-to-face. But that meeting ends very poorly for you." Pale blue eyes glinted in the harsh overhead lighting. "I asked if you remembered me: think back, about five years."

Frowning, the con man stared hard at the gunman's face. "You mean you're —

"Very _good_, Mr. Boardstaff. And now, goodbye."

The bang of the gun firing echoed around the room. Even before the last echo had faded, before Boardstaff's body could fall limply to the floor, the man was moving for the rear exit. Behind him, the door to the hallway opened, the pair of burly bodyguards stepping inside.

"You! Hold it!"

"I don't think so, boys." Waving his gun in warning, sending light gleaming from its dull silver body, the man smiled tightly. "I've got places to be . . . and you've got a mess to clean up."

* * *

EAST CITY MILITARY HOSPITAL  
DECEMBER 10, 1103 HOURS

"No offense, Lieutenant, but I think your dad's messed up."

Giving Havoc a look of strained patience, Riza kept her tone calm and even. "You haven't been listening," she countered. "There's no possible way that this could be my father. This is somebody's idea of getting my attention."

"And that somebody sounds like a classic stalker," Breda put in. He was frowning hard, staring blankly at the bedsheets. "Just for the sake of argument, though . . . are you absolutely sure — don't get pissed — are you absolutely sure this isn't your dad?"

Roy spoke up quietly from behind Riza's chair. "With me as a witness, she's sure. There's no way that Master Hawkeye is sending those letters."

He had been almost silent since they had returned from their private conference in the stairwell. Riza's heart had ached, watching the expression of pure shock and disbelief cross his face before he shut it down. His arms had stayed folded tight across his chest, and beyond having to order her to share the developments with everyone, he hadn't said a word.

There was no doubt in her mind that he was furious. Whether with her or whomever was sending these letters, she wasn't sure. Perhaps both.

"What we know for certain," she continued, bringing herself back on track, "is that someone out there is very interested in me, for some reason. The problem is that I can't think of anyone that might do this. If you have any suggestions, it could provide us with a lead to start investigating."

Falman cleared his throat. "Lieutenant, perhaps it's not someone you've met face-to-face. There was a lot of media coverage of the Colonel's coup d'état; you were mentioned in at least three articles over two different newspapers in association with him."

"That was almost a year and a half ago," Fuery put in. "Why did this guy wait until now to start contacting her?"

"Building up his courage," Breda put in. "People that do this sort of thing aren't generally all that confident around women. Especially women in powerful positions like Hawkeye."

"He could've been in prison," Havoc suggested. "All the outgoing mail gets screened: if it were anything stalker-ish, the guards would just toss the letter out. The inmate receives a warning, but the problem never really goes away. And they still get newspapers in jail."

"At the risk of this becoming too personal . . . ." Falman shifted in hesitation. "On the topic of people who might be responsible for this . . . . Lieutenant, do you have any former . . . well, any past relationships that might —"

"There's no old boyfriends," Roy cut in, a little too sharply.

Riza's eyes rolled toward the ceiling. "I can answer questions myself, sir."

Eyebrows lifting, Havoc leaned back against the wall. "No offense, Boss, but how exactly do you know whether or not Hawkeye's new best friend isn't an old more-than-a-friend?"

That earned him a deadpan look. "Because I've known her longer than you have."

The conversation stopped as the room's door opened; all eyes went to the nurse standing there. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I'm looking for a —" She paused, looking down at a piece of paper in her hand. "—First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye?"

Riza got to her feet. "That's me."

"You have a phone call at the nurses' station, ma'am. If you'll follow me?"

Reaching out, Roy's hand curled around his adjutant's arm before she could move away. "Just a moment. Who is it that's calling?"

The nurse shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir, he didn't say. All he said was that it was important he speak to the Lieutenant immediately." She hesitated, clearly confused. "Should I tell him that the Lieutenant is unavailable, sir?"

"No." Tugging her arm from Roy's grasp, giving him a sidelong warning glance, Riza moved toward the door. "It's all right."

"Yes, ma'am. Please, follow me."

She was aware of Roy following her to the nurses' station, lurking behind her with all the dark foreboding of a thunderhead. It was times like this, she was thankful for the ability to ignore him when she so chose. The nurse who had fetched her lifted a telephone onto the high counter and turned away again; Riza breathed deep to steady herself and brought the receiver to her ear.

"_Hello, Lieutenant_."

For a fraction of a second, she froze, before forcing her mind back into action. "You could at least give me the chance to acknowledge first," she said calmly. "That's the way these things generally work: I say hello, then you, and then you tell me who's calling."

A soft chuckle sounded from the other end. "_How very witty, my dear. However, I'm afraid I prefer to break with tradition in this case._"

Unimpressed, Riza folded her arms on the countertop. "Have it your way. Do I at least get to know what I owe the pleasure to?"

"_Of course, of course._" The smile was evident in the mysterious caller's voice. "_I have information on the murder of Mr. Eric Nickelson. I believe you've concerned yourself with that, have you not?_"

Instantly on alert, Riza stood straight. Reaching over, she tapped Roy's arm twice to get his attention, before pointing at a pencil and pad of paper sitting on the desk below. "I have. When you say information, you mean you witnessed the murder?"

"_In a sense, yes._"

Taking the pencil, Riza held it ready to write, trying to ignore the smug tone of her caller. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to give your name?"

"_Of course._" A pause for a pair of heartbeats. "_Berthold Hawkeye_."

Riza twitched. The tip of the pencil, pressed against the paper and ready to write, snapped under sudden pressure from her surprised fingers. Delayed by a half-second, Roy gave a similar jolt at her reaction, eyes suddenly watching her with worried intensity.

Swallowing hard, she forced her voice to remain calm. "You'll have to try that again," she said, curling her fingers tightly around the pencil. "I'm having a hard time believing it."

"_All the things you've seen and you don't believe me?_" The man masquerading as her father tsked. "_Friends with a boy's soul in a suit of armour, and another that survived human transmutation. You fought alongside chimeras and against Homonculi, and you still don't believe me?_" Another brief pause. "_Even the man you call your lover had his sight restored with the fabled Philosopher's Stone. How can you not believe, Riza?_"

Her breath stopped for a moment; staring straight ahead, it was only the touch of Roy's hand on her arm that brought her back. ". . . My what?" she said, voice low.

"_Oh yes, I know all about that,_" was the indifferent answer. "_Do you want this information I have or not?_"

Riza gritted her teeth. "I do, but I'd also like to know how and why you have all this personal intelligence on me. And while we're at it, perhaps you wouldn't mind explaining why you insist on using my father's name." In her peripheral, she was aware of Roy's eyes suddenly narrowing as it became all too clear who she was speaking to.

". . . _We're not going to get very far today, I can see that now._"A quiet sigh. "_The man who killed Mr. Nickelson: it was me._"

She set the pencil down: if her grip on it tightened any further, the entire thing was going to snap in half. "Was it, now. And how do I know that you're not simply faking a confession? From where I stand, you seem quite prone to lying."

"_Oh, come now, Riza. In this entire conversation, I have told exactly one lie: no more, no less. Though if it will take another display of truth to convince you . . . ._" The smirk in his voice reappeared.

Two long seconds after the next words left his mouth, Riza slammed the receiver back into its cradle, and yanked her hand away as though burned. She spun, turning to face the opposite direction so that she wouldn't have to look at the device. Roy's hand, slipping from her arm, went to her shoulder.

"Hawkeye, talk to me. What's going on?"

She gritted her teeth. ". . . He knows about my back, sir."


	5. Lifeline

_A/N: Welcome, everybody! Hold on to your seats, now, because this is where things are gonna get edgy._

_I do not own FMA._

* * *

**Chapter Five - Lifeline**

The man stared blankly at the wall six feet away, a blissful smile on his face as he replayed the tape of his conversation with the Lieutenant the night before. He had done it; he had found what she feared most, besides losing Mustang, of course.

Riza Hawkeye feared her own past. Or more accurately, feared that past coming back to haunt her, feared it destroying everything she had worked to build.

The tape cut off as she abruptly hung up; almost regretfully, he trailed a finger along the grip of the telephone receiver, resting in its cradle. "You really do have a lovely voice, Riza," he said softly. "Even distorted through modern electronics."

Of course, in the past two days, since he had installed the bugs in her apartment, he had heard far more of her voice than before. There had been no further sound since she and Mustang had left yesterday morning; understandable, since they had both gone with their injured comrades to the hospital. The man was glad the injuries were minor. He had no intentions of seriously harming any of the Lieutenant's colleagues or subordinates.

It had been a close call in placing the note for her to find after he set up his makeshift bomb. He had only just made it out the abandoned bar's back door when she and the blond man — he always had such a hard time remembering that one's name — came through from the main room. He had stayed to listen, back pressed against the grimy outer wall of the building, feeling pure glee as first the two of them and then Mustang puzzled over who could have left the note. He had left just as sirens had begun to sound from approaching emergency vehicles.

Withdrawing his hand from the telephone, he reached for the papers set to one side of his worn, splintery "desk," studying them almost lazily. Black strokes of ink slashed viciously through fifteen of the twenty-one names listed there, holes peeking through the paper where the pen had pressed a little too solidly. The freshest stroke appeared through the words '_Mr. Lyle Boardstaff ._' The name '_1st Lt. Riza Hawkeye_' was circled in red.

"It's decided, my dear," the man murmured softly, almost fondly. "I'll save the best for last. Consider it an honour."

* * *

EAST CITY TRAIN STATION  
DECEMBER 11, 11:12 A.M.

"Yeah, except I don't get why you'd _want_ to come with me." Stepping off the train, suitcase slung over one shoulder, Ed glanced around the familiar East City station. "Ishval, maybe, but not here. I'm just going to be poking around and annoying Colonel Bastard by even showing up."

"And I'm here to make sure you don't take it too far!" Alphonse retorted, stepping down to the platform beside his brother. "And it's been a while since we saw everyone; you don't think I'm going to miss a chance to see them, do you?"

Edward snorted quietly and turned toward the exit. "I guess not. And they haven't seen you since you left the hospital to go home, either. You're going to have to re-tell every story you have."

"That's okay; I imagine the Colonel will want to meet the actual me for himself. He never knew us before the failed transmutation, and we left the hospital before he got his sight back."

"Right . . . the Colonel . . . ." Ed's lip twisted in thought. "You know, I said he'd be annoyed that we've come here, but I kind of wonder if he won't be a little bit glad. There was obviously something bothering him when he called, but it should have been worse if it was something really serious."

Al's brow furrowed. "But he only gets the way you described him over the really serious stuff. So there has to be more than he's letting on."

"Obviously. Think of who we're talking about, Al."

Abruptly, the younger Elric's eyes widened. "Brother, you don't think . . . maybe someone in his unit is leaving? He got all closed-down and tight-lipped like this when Bradley divided everyone up; maybe it happened again? Because of the security breach?"

"What, like Hawkeye finally had enough of his crap and bailed?" Edward smirked and shook his head. "I doubt it. And this wasn't the same sort of reaction he had then. He was closed-down in front of Bradley, but when we spoke to him later, he was just . . . I don't know, he wasn't himself. Like he was —" He broke off as they stepped out onto the station's front steps. "It sounds stupid: he seemed like he was lonely, more than anything. This time he just sounds pissed."

Al's eyebrows lifted as he glanced sidelong at his brother. "He gets like that when someone attacks people he cares about," he said quietly. "Underneath Laboratory Three, against Lust . . . that was the angriest I had ever seen him. And he wasn't angry that the Lieutenant had given up; he didn't find out about that until after, at the hospital. He was angry that Lust had attacked him, Havoc, and Hawkeye and me."

"Makes sense." Stopping on the sidewalk, Edward looked toward the just-visible walls of East City Command half a mile away, just north of the station. "Time we put these theories to the test, then."

The walk was a familiar one, along open streets filled with people. The brothers' eyes flitted from sight to sight, taking back in the memories of a familiar city left unvisited for too long. Mid-morning sun had only just cleared the rooftops overhead, sending warmth down on the two golden-haired heads that moved among the crowds until at last, they stood in front of the familiar gates.

"I'm trying not to have flashbacks to six years ago," Ed muttered, staring up the long, open courtyard to the base's main entrance. "Standing here wondering if everything was going to change or stay the same."

"Good thing it _did_ change," Al said softly, gripping Edward's shoulder lightly with a smile. "Things would have been pretty boring if we were stuck in Resembool the way we were." He started forward again. "We'd also probably be dead and Father would be ruling an empty world with an iron fist."

For the space of a blink, Edward simply stared after his younger sibling before breaking into a jog to catch up. "That was a nice moment until you wrecked it!"

It was the work of five minutes to make it to the spacious main foyer of the building, and to sign in with the visitors' desk. After that, a familiar path to the office.

"What do you think?" Edward said as they left the stairwell on the third floor. "Do we just walk in and wait for them to notice us, or barge in like we own the place?"

"If the Colonel's as grouchy as you said he was, we might be better off with a quiet entrance." Al's eyes picked out the correct door in the hallway ahead. "In a bad mood, he's more likely to torch us both for showing up loudly and uninvited."

"Eh. It's less fun, but you've got a point."

The door opened on silent hinges, the two young men stepping through into a deserted office. Four desks were grouped together off to the right, the Colonel's almost straight ahead in front of the main window. Shelving units and filing cabinets stood against the walls, closed and probably locked. A pair of couches and a coffee table stood near the door, unoccupied.

Edward closed the door, one eyebrow cocked quizzically. "You don't suppose they heard we were coming and made a break for it, do you?"

* * *

RIZA'S APARTMENT  
DECEMBER 11, 1200 HOURS

The door of her apartment slammed, and Riza leaned back against it, feeling only minor relief of the tension riding around between her shoulder blades and on the back of her neck. Even shutting the door with such force only did so much to dull the anger that had been roiling in her gut since yesterday.

"Riza, you just about hit me in the nose."

Roy's voice sounded through the door directly behind her head, causing her to grit her teeth. He was in full worry mode now — had barely moved more than a foot from her side since she'd hung up on her mysterious caller — and it was beginning to feel suffocating. She loved the man, certainly, but having him fuss over her like this was hardly necessary. Their failure in trying to trace the call she had received wasn't doing her mood any favours.

"No offense, but I can handle this on my own," she answered, not moving. "Go home, sir; you didn't sleep at all last night. You need the rest."

"I could say the same for you," he retorted. "Come on; open up." Silence held for a pair of heartbeats, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft. "Riza, let me in. This won't go away by not talking about it."

"No, sir. It'll go away when I track that man down and drag him to the military police."

"It'll be kind of hard to do that from a safehouse, won't it?"

For the space of a breath, she was motionless, processing what he'd said. Then, in a blur of motion, she whirled and yanked the door open. Roy twitched at the wide brown eyes in front of him, shifting to stand straight now that there was no door to press his ear against.

"A safehouse?" Incredulous, Riza could only stare at him. "You mean —"

Roy glanced sharply over his shoulder as whistling sounded from up the hall; one of her neighbours, returning home. Ducking under the arm she held across his path into the apartment, he turned and closed the door quietly. "Yes, a safehouse. Please tell me you can understand why I'd want you there." No response. Reaching out, he lightly gripped her upper arms, having to bend only slightly so that he was on eye level.

"You know what it would do to me to lose you," he half-whispered.

Riza's expression dropped from surprise and disbelief to disappointment and hurt. "So you want to just shut me away?" Her shoulders lowered from their high, rigid posture as she shook her head. "I need to be a part of this investigation, Roy. I _have_ to be. I promised Marian."

Her hands lifted to his forearms, gently disengaging herself from him. "It's not just that, either. I can't sit still and let other people do the work, face all the potential danger. Not for my sake." She stepped around him, moving toward the stove. "I have a job to do."

Roy's eyes followed her as she filled a kettle with water from the sink, returning it to the stove and igniting the burner beneath it. "It's clear that this guy, whoever he is, has more than one screw loose," he said, at last. "The men were right: he's a classic stalker. He knew exactly where you were when he made that phone call."

Hand outstretched toward the box of teabags on their high shelf, Riza lifted onto her toes to reach it. "And there's only two explanations as to how he knew," she said, setting the little box down and pulling a pair of white mugs from the drying rack beside the sink. "He was either present when the explosion went off, or he has a radio set up to monitor the frequencies used by the military police."

"Could be either." Leaning back against the edge of the table, his fingers gripping the edge, Roy worried the inside of his lower lip with his teeth, deep in thought. "I like the first option less: it means he was within grabbing distance and he got away."

"We _did_ have other pressing concerns at the time," Riza said diplomatically. Delicately picking a pair of bags from the box of tea, she dropped one into each mug before she turned to face him. "But we've gotten off-topic."

Roy scowled, his fingers tightening on the wood beneath them. "I don't want to have this out as an argument, Riza," he said, voice low enough to be nearly a growl. "I'm only ordering it because I want to keep you safe."

"You're _ordering_ it?" she repeated, every syllable deliberate. Whisky-brown eyes narrowed, her lips setting into a firm line though the rest of her body stayed relaxed, her hands open at her sides. "A minute ago you said you only _wanted_ me to hide, now you're _ordering_ it?"

Something sparked behind those deeply black eyes, much the same as it did when his gloved fingers snapped. "Damn right I'm ordering it, because it's becoming apparent you're not going to go otherwise!" Pushing himself upright, he pivoted to face her directly, hands clenching into fists. "Riza, I'm just thinking about your safety, here! If this guy can track you down at the office, at the hospital, at what's supposed to be a covert meeting place, then we have to assume your apartment is only too easy for him to find!"

"And if he comes here looking for me, he'll find me waiting with a loaded gun," she shot back, leaning forward for emphasis. "I'm not a little girl, Roy! I can look after myself!"

His teeth gritted visibly. "And what about ten years ago? When your father — your _actual_ father, not some letter-writing lunatic — asked me to look after you? Am I supposed to just toss that aside?"

Standing straight again, Riza folded her arms, staring him down. "A request you never actually agreed to," she said softly. "You never said 'I will.' The only move you made to help me then was to help organize the funeral and give me a contact number if I needed you."

He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Cut the indifference act, Riza, I know this has you thrown off-balance; our little conference in the stairwell made it pretty obvious that this psycho has gotten to you on an emotional level." His gaze came back to hers, matching it in unyielding determination. "I just want to make sure he doesn't succeed on a _physical_ level."

"I'm telling you, he won't."

"You can't promise that!"

"You can't stop me."

Roy's eyes went cold then, in a look she'd seen very rarely. It was the look when he'd told her she was to shoot him in the back if he left the straight and narrow. It was the look the night he'd left to find Maria Ross. It was the look when he'd raised his voice, lecturing her on giving up. It was the look he'd had when she signalled him in that room below Central, one hand clamped to her throat to keep her life from bleeding away. And as it had every other time, it sent icy, unpleasant thrills through her gut.

Behind her, the telltale sounds of the kettle boiling made the only noise in the room. Looking away, Riza turned and lifted the metal vessel off its burner, trying not to let her hand shake as she poured the steaming water into the waiting mugs. It was uncommon for him to use that particular brand of glare, and it could only mean that he was deadly serious about this. Willing the tremble from her fingers, she steeled her resolve: he was serious, and so was she.

Picking up the mugs, she wordlessly handed one to him, before moving toward the kitchen table. There was no eye contact, no touch of fingers. This was a game of 'chicken' and one of them would blink before very long.

She had only just set her own mug on the table, reaching for a chair, when the phone rang. Cool, distant air still in place around herself, Riza stepped to the telephone on the counter, picking it up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"_Hey, Lieutenant._"

Riza instantly relaxed from a state of tension she hadn't been aware of, one not brought on by the argument. After the last phone call she'd received, it was good to hear a friendly voice. "Edward. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"_Well . . . I'm hoping you can answer a question for me._" There was humour in the young man's voice, though mixed with a touch of apprehension. "_See, I'm at the office, and I'm starting to wonder where everybody is._" His sheepish smile broke through into his tone. "_Was it something I said?_"

* * *

The first distraction was the kettle. The second was the phone. Roy listened to the conversation just long enough to understand she was talking to Edward, before putting his plan into motion. Leaving his tea on the table, he headed to the bathroom, keeping half an ear on Riza's conversation.

"No, no, nothing like that. Everyone's out today; there's some things that have to be taken care of, and they won't get done by sitting around an office."

A half-truth, he thought to himself, closing the bathroom door. Best that the kid keep her occupied for the time being; it would give him long enough to put his impromptu plan into action.

_She's gonna kill me when she figures it out_ . . . .

Riza wasn't the type to have packets upon packets of medicine in her bathroom cabinet, but the ones that she did would serve his purpose well enough. Searching quickly, he found what he needed, palmed two of the tiny white tablets, and slipped the rest of the bottle in his pocket. Glancing once at the door, he flushed the empty toilet, waited a span of five heartbeats, then slipped out back into the main area.

"I understand that, but I can only tell you so much," Riza was saying patiently, one hand resting on the counter; she didn't even look over as Roy re-entered. "You're not with the military anymore, Edward, and all of this is very close to classified."

Moving past the table, Roy dropped the two tablets in his palm into her cup, glancing her way to make sure he was unobserved. If she caught him now, their little spat a few minutes ago would seem like a pleasant chat in the sunshine.

"Okay. Where are you staying while you're here?" She took down a brief bit of information on the pad beside the phone as Roy settled into his chair at the kitchen table. "All right. We'll meet you there, and fill you in. . . . Right."

She hung up, tore the piece of paper from the pad, and moved to take her chair at the table. Her eyes remained firmly on the wooden surface, though she slid the note across to him with two fingers. "The Elric boys would like a word with you when you have the chance, sir."

He glanced up briefly at her use of the honourific, before taking the paper slip. "Cartwright Hotel, 3 p.m.. That's over on Victory Way, isn't it?" Riza's only answer was a curt nod. "What are they doing in the city?"

"You'll have to ask that when we see them, sir."

Roy's lip twisted just slightly at the use of the word 'we,' but reached back and stowed the note in his pocket. "Fine." Cradling his mug in both hands, he stared into the depths. "I knew he wouldn't want to leave well enough alone. Leave it to Fullmetal to pop up just when there's trouble."

"I suppose." His eyes followed her as she took a long drink from her cup, her gaze far away and to the side. Avoiding looking at him. Good: it meant she wouldn't be looking at any little particles of pill that might still be in her drink.

Clearing his throat to dispel the awkward silence — something that hadn't existed between them in who knew how long — Roy made an attempt at compromise. "You know . . . we could set it up that someone like Armstrong could stay here with you, until this is over," he said casually. "It doesn't get much safer than that outside of an actual safehouse."

The look she gave him was withering. "I don't think both the Major and I would fit in this apartment, sir. It's not exactly spacious."

"Riza, I'm trying to make it work for both of us."

"You're trying to make it work for _you_," she bit out. She dropped her gaze to the tabletop again, taking another mouthful of tea.

Reaching across, he touched his fingers to hers; she didn't respond. "I swear, I'm not doing this because I'm trying to keep you from helping. I just don't want to see anything happen to you. Not again."

Her only reaction was to take another sip from her cup; again, his eyes followed the movement, noting that hers were beginning to look heavy. Well, the package _had_ said 'fast-acting.'

Slowly, Riza's lips left the rim of the cup, brown eyes staring into it with a mixture of puzzlement and curiosity. "Wait a minute . . . what's —" Her gaze widened, swinging up to him. "What the hell did you do?"

"Trust me, Riza, it's for your own good." She got to her feet, one hand on the table for balance, and he did the same. "I know, it was sneaky and underhanded and I'm sorry, but believe me, it's going to be better in the long run."

She turned to face him, eyes open halfway, fury peeking through the lowering curtain of sleep. "Of all the . . . . Why would you . . . . How could you —" Riza leaned too far forward, and overbalanced, taking two staggering steps right into his arms.

"I know," Roy murmured into her hair, one hand on the back of her head even as she gripped at his shirt. "I'm sorry, and I swear I'll make up for this." Leaning back, he moved his hand to her chin, fingers tilting her face up. Her glare had lost its heat, her brown eyes soft and her mouth open just the slightest bit.

"Riza, a year and a half ago, I came so close to losing you for good. I can't go through that again." He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closing. "Do you remember what I told you in the tunnels under Central? When you talked me down? It's the same now."

Her grip on his shirt was loosening. "You . . . ."

Leaning back against the counter, he wrapped both arms around her, holding her to his chest, with his face buried in her hair. He didn't know how, but he had to make her understand. How much was she capable of understanding right now? All he could do was stand here, hold her, and try to pour as much of his protectiveness, guilt, and love into the space between them, and hope it got through. His brow furrowed, and he hugged her tighter, trying not to think of how similar this felt to holding her slack form in that dungeon of a room beneath Central.

It was the truth: he couldn't go through something like that again. He couldn't lose her. All the times she was called his 'babysitter,' or someone referred to her as 'Mustang's lapdog,' were times when people had lied. No one except him knew she was his lifeline.

Riza's breath was soft on his neck as she sighed, still fighting to stay awake. "You —" A yawn interrupted her. "Ed's right," she mumbled, when it subsided. "You're . . . a bastard . . . ."

She drifted off to sleep then, leaving Roy to convince himself that this broken feeling in his chest was for the greater good.

* * *

CARTWRIGHT HOTEL  
DECEMBER 11, 3:02 P.M.

Sitting at a table in the hotel restaurant, Edward watched his brother folding and unfolding a napkin. ". . . What are you doing, exactly?"

The younger Elric smiled, eyes focussed on his fidgeting. "May taught me origami. I don't know why: something about using your hands to make nice things, without the alchemy aspect." He looked up. "You wanna try?"

"Nah, knowing me, I'd accidentally tear the napkin in half," Ed grinned. "But remind me to hit you up for some paper flowers on Winry's birthday." Glancing toward the door, as had become his habit since they'd sat down, the grin vanished. "Oh, balls. He's here."

Striding across the soft carpet, hands in his pockets, Mustang glanced once at the table the boys occupied, before his gaze swept the rest of the room. Al immediately abandoned his napkin-folding, setting it to one side as he got to his feet. "Hello, Colonel. It's good to see you."

"Same to you, kid." Shaking the boy's proffered hand, Mustang turned his attention to the elder brother. "Can't say I was expecting either of you to show up, though." His eyes narrowed minutely. "I thought I made it clear that there was a security breach, and we weren't heading out for Ishval until it was resolved."

Leaning back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head, Edward didn't smile. "We're not here for Ishval. We're here because something is very obviously wrong, and we want to know what we can do to help."

Dropping into the chair across from him, Mustang let out a tired sigh, running a hand back through his hair. "You want to help? You can go home. Any more people getting messed up in this could just end in disaster."

"How many _are_ involved?"

"Just my people." Shaking his head, he stirred his bangs back into their usual place in front of his eyes. "Some of them more than others."

Ed's lip twisted. "So we were right." He waited until the older man looked up. "Something's happened to someone on your team." Mustang's expression immediately locked down, giving nothing away, but it was too late. "Look, I might not be a State alchemist anymore, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't help my friends when they need it! Even if one of them is too much of a jackass to ask!"

Alphonse winced at his brother's language; Mustang merely smirked. "Admitting you consider me some kind of friend . . . are you sick or something?"

"Colonel . . . ." Alphonse hesitated, waiting until those inscrutable black eyes turned his way. "If something has happened to Lieutenant Hawkeye or the others, we want to help. You know we can handle ourselves if things get rough, and besides —" He folded his hands together on the tabletop. "The sooner this gets wrapped up, the sooner you can get back to the reconstruction efforts in Ishval, right?"

Mustang studied him a moment more, chewing at the inside of his lip, before dropping his gaze back to his own fingers. ". . . Breda and Fuery are already in the hospital; minor injuries, nothing serious. I forced Hawkeye into a safehouse; she's going to be pissed."

Ed lifted an eyebrow. "What do you mean 'going to be?'"

"I may or may not have dosed her with sleeping pills so that she'd go quietly." Pulling his pocketwatch from the front of his jacket, ignoring the incredulous pairs of golden eyes staring at him, he popped the cover. "She'll be waking up in another few hours."

Shaking his head, Edward leaned forward, folding both arms on top of the table. "I don't know if that's gutsy, or if it's the most slimeball trick you've ever pulled."

Mustang snorted quietly. "Thanks. I _feel_ like a slimeball for it, but if it keeps her out of harm's way, then it's worth it." He pushed to his feet. "Come on; let's go someplace else to discuss this. It's not the sort of thing I want to talk about in public."

* * *

_There are things I'm not 100% on for this: like, it broke my heart to have Roy be so desperate and have him make such a poor decision. But if you need a smile . . . just imagine what Riza is going to do to him._


	6. Identity

_A/N: Happy Wednesday! I hope last week's chapter didn't get you too upset; yes, I've split up the dream team, but only temporarily. I have to admit, Riza's initial reaction is one of my favourite things I've ever written._

_I do not own FMA._

* * *

**Chapter Six - Identity**

This couldn't be happening.

All his planning, all his anticipation, and all his efforts blocked by a single move on the part of his opponent. Pausing in pacing the floor of his tiny room, the man glared at the radio receiver on his desk, the silence coming from it deafening in his ears.

His quarry was gone, had been for the last four hours, and it looked to remain that way. He had listened, rolling his eyes as Mustang apologized profusely for whatever he'd done — judging from the cabinet sounds from the bathroom microphone and increased drowsiness in the Lieutenant's voice, it was likely he'd drugged her — and then becoming keenly interested as the vaunted Flame Alchemist made a phone call before leaving again.

And that phone call had involved transferring the Lieutenant to a safehouse.

_Well played, Mustang_, the man thought, before whirling and viciously punching the wall beside which he stood. His rage subsided into the pit of his stomach, leaving a foul taste in his mouth, and a throbbing in his knuckles.

Lifting his hand in front of his face, the man studied the new lacerations in his skin, beginning to ooze blood. Well. This new development didn't mean an end to his personal operation. Roadblocks could be run, and obstacle courses could be conquered.

The Lieutenant _would_ be his, he vowed, tongue sliding from behind his teeth to lick his new wounds.

* * *

SAFEHOUSE  
DECEMBER 11, 9 P.M.

When she came awake, it was to soft whining and something warm and wet stroking repeatedly across her neck. Riza frowned, and rolled away from it, snuggling deeper into her pillow. Behind her, the moment she moved, there was a quiet happy yap.

She moaned under her breath. "Hayate, shhhhhhh . . . . Not now. I'm —"

Abruptly, her memory resurfaced and Riza bolted into a crouch. Fight-or-flight instincts screamed at her from every direction, her head swivelling side to side in a threat-evaluation exercise that was firmly embedded into reflex. Nothing but the bed, sunnily orange walls, and her cheerfully panting dog met her searching gaze, sending panic fading into confusion.

Slowly shifting to sit cross-legged, Riza reached out, scratching behind her pet's ears. "Thanks for the wake-up call," she murmured, blinking to dispel the fog that threatened to creep back into her mind. It was the same feeling as waking up after an un-needed nap — wait . . . she'd fallen asleep . . . drugs in her tea . . . .

_Roy_.

". . . Son of a _BITCH!_"

Rolling off the bed, landing smoothly on her feet, she took a deep breath, letting her anger build into the centre of her chest. Hands balled into fists, she stalked toward the bedroom door, and yanked it open with far more force than was necessary. She made no attempt to keep her footsteps quiet as she descended the staircase, one hand on the muted grey wall.

Movement sounded from the room she was descending into, and she lifted her chin in defiance. "Of all the hare-brained, idiotic, downright _stupid _things you've ever done, this has to be _the_ most —"

Stopping on the landing at the bottom of the stairs, she broke off mid-rant as she caught sight of the person standing there. For a long moment, she merely stared, before shaking herself back to the present, and drawing herself to attention. Her right hand snapped into place in a salute as her anger evaporated.

"I apologize, sir. I thought I would be addressing someone else."

The corners of Armstrong's eyes crinkled as he smiled, the expression itself hidden behind his moustache. "It's quite all right, Lieutenant," he rumbled. "I was told to expect that you would be somewhat miffed upon waking. That being said: I trust you slept well?"

Dropping her hand back to her side, Riza relaxed her posture only slightly, her lip twisting. "As well as a drug-induced nap can get, sir," she murmured. Her eyes scanned the room, taking in the weathered hardwood floors, overstuffed sofas, and the book the Major had apparently left abandoned on the coffee table. "Is the Colonel here?"

"I'm afraid not." Waving a hand, Armstrong turned back toward one of the couches. "Let's not be so formal, Riza; we're both going to be here indefinitely, and it's only going to get tiresome."

"Right." Taking the last two steps down onto the living room floor, Riza moved to sit on the couch opposite the burly Major, Hayate following at her heels. "If you don't mind me asking, just how did the Colonel manage to get you here to babysit me?"

That drew a chuckle from the large man. "He was fortunate enough that I was already in the city. I was sent here to serve as a character witness in a disciplinary hearing — charming young man, though he'd been taking kickbacks from the Quartermaster's offices — and since my duties there are complete . . . ." Blue eyes flicked in Riza's direction. "The Colonel asked if I wouldn't mind keeping an eye on you for a few days."

"I see." Lacing her fingers together, Riza crossed her legs and hooked her palms around one knee. "You and I both know how softhearted you are, Major. What's to stop me from telling the sob story that brought me here, and walking out while you're distracted by your emotions?"

Armstrong's eyes twinkled. "The fact that I would be forced to hug you out of sheer sympathy."

". . . I can see why the Colonel chose you."

"Yes, that's one reason." His tone wry, Armstrong leaned forward and picked up the book from the coffee table. "He also said you would be quote, spitting mad, unquote, when you awakened, and that none of the others in his command would dare get in your way should that happen." His head tilted curiously to one side. "How did he manage to drug you?"

Riza's lip twisted. "I have a package of sleeping pills in my bathroom cabinet. Every so often, I'll get insomnia, and I'd rather take medication to help me sleep than lie there and stare at the ceiling for hours on end. The Colonel knows that; he put two of them in my drink to knock me out." Leaning back in the soft cushions, she smiled grimly. "He's clever, there's no doubt of that. I don't suppose he left a message for me?"

"As a matter of fact, he did." Armstrong folded his arms, his expression becoming stern. "He asked me to tell you that while you're here, all regular safehouse procedures are to be observed. You do not go outside without an escort, you do not leave without permission from the office, and the telephone is for emergency communications only. Do you understand?"

"I understand," she said, diverting her eyes to the rug. At the back of her mind, she pondered just how angry it would make Roy if she were to disregard his instructions . . . . After a moment, she lifted her gaze back to Armstrong. "How much do you know about the situation that brought me here?"

"Just that someone is keenly interested in getting to you."

Folding her arms, Riza leaned back against the plush cushions of the couch. "I've never been much good at telling stories, but I'll do my best. You might as well know what you're getting into."

* * *

ROY'S OFFICE, EAST CITY MILITARY HEADQUARTERS  
DECEMBER 11, 11 P.M.

Hands folded together, held just in front of his chin, Roy watched as Edward's sharp golden eyes scanned the letter left by Riza's stalker at the explosion site. Alphonse stood behind his brother's chair, reading over his shoulder; where Ed's expression was carefully neutral, Al's was nothing short of alarmed.

"Oh my gosh . . ." the younger Elric murmured. "Who would have thought someone would go after the Lieutenant like this?"

"Unfortunately, because of her connection with me, she's incurred a few ill wishes in her time. Guilty by association." Dropping his hands to his desk, Roy blew out a breath. "If the letters didn't specify otherwise, I'd think that this was all an attempt to get to me through her. Wouldn't be the first time. But whoever this is, it's clear that she and she alone is the one he wants. Breda and Fuery were just accidental collateral damage, and minor at that."

Edward looked up. "And this is all that he wrote this time?"

Roy shook his head. "That's not the original letter; that's stowed away as evidence, not to mention he proved his knowledge of her by naming some major secrets that you don't have the clearance for." _And I don't need you finding out about her and I_, he added mentally.

Behind the boys, Falman edged through the door, followed by Havoc, both carrying sets of banker's boxes that they dropped on one of the desks. Huffing once under his breath, Havoc stretched his back, wincing slightly. "Got 'em all, Chief; any case that Hawkeye worked on or personally oversaw." Blue eyes slid toward the boxes. "I didn't realize there were this many . . . ."

"Some will be from before you got here," Roy said, getting to his feet. He shrugged out of his jacket, and came around from behind his desk, rolling his sleeves up as he went. "The best way to do this is to go through every file, and see if we can find anybody that might have reason to go after her. It's not the most interesting way to spend the evening, but I'd rather have answers at this point."

Taking one of the boxes, he settled cross-legged onto the floor and set it at his right. "Let's get to it."

The others followed his example, except for Falman. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll go check in with the Major; Lieutenant Hawkeye should be awake by now, and one of us should update her." He shifted almost nervously. "Forgive my saying so, but . . . I don't imagine she particularly wants to talk to you just yet."

Smiling wryly, Roy looked up from the sheaf of papers already in his hands. "Yeah, I can see why. Go for it; just don't take too long. And make sure to use a secured line."

"Yes, sir."

Edward looked up from his own box. "Hold on a minute; you said that letter we read was from the place where Hawkeye's stalker set a bomb off. But in that note, he said 'letters.' There's more?"

His brow furrowed in thought, Roy kept his eyes on the papers he was sorting. "You're right . . . . The explosion site letter is the only one I've seen, but Hawkeye mentioned she'd received one more. Here, at the office." Setting his handful of files aside, he got up and crossed to her desk.

No letter on top of it — of course not, she wouldn't leave it out for the world to see — and none in her trash. Custodial Services only came once a week to this office, so there was no chance it had been emptied in the last four days. His eyes went to the drawers, mentally checking off what he knew she kept inside them.

The centre one, that sat over her legs, held assorted small office supplies, an extra hairclip, and one or two personal photographs. On the right, at the top, was where she kept her gun when sitting at her desk, along with exactly four extra clips for it, maintenance supplies, and a tin of kibble for Hayate should she work late with him along. The next drawer down held current files, never more than two weeks old, and contact information for the men, himself, and every information source or connection she had ever had. The bottom drawer was almost always empty, except for her spare uniform for the occasions she was here all night.

And when he pulled it open, resting on the neatly folded black shirt within, was an envelope with '1st Lt. Riza Hawkeye' typed across the front.

"That sneaky son of a bitch," Roy breathed, lifting the envelope from its hiding place. "Sent it to her right under the military's nose . . . ."

Ed was watching, sitting tall as he tried to see what the older man held. "Did you find it?"

"Yeah. Give me a sec." Pulling the folded paper from inside, he quickly scanned the words written there, brows slowly drawing together more and more the further he read. _Admirer . . . for some time . . . personal strength and strong moral compass_ — yeah, that was Riza, all right — _notify you of my presence . . . caught my interest . . . keep the token I've enclosed . . . ._

Token . . . what token? Looking up, Roy gave her desk top another glance, seeing nothing that wasn't usually there. Enclosed . . . . Pulling the open edges of the envelope apart, he peered inside at the slim, dried leaf sitting in the fold. "What the . . . ."

"Excuse me; Colonel Mustang?" His head came up to find a strange man in his late twenties standing in the doorway, smiling shyly. "Uh . . . if you don't mind, sir . . . . I'm a friend of Master Sergeant Fuery; he asked me to stop by and pick up a couple things he left behind. Says he's going crazy in the hospital with nothing to do."

Roy waved a hand in indifferent permission. "Sure, sure." He reached into the envelope, drawing the leaf out between his index and middle finger. He couldn't tell which plant it was from; a job for Falman, then. His eyes found the typing on the front again; no way to know if it was actually from Master Hawkeye, without handwriting to look at. He wasn't even sure he would recognize that penmanship.

He didn't _want_ to believe it was his old master, running about, messing with Riza's life again . . . but maybe he would have to.

"Whatcha got, Chief?" Havoc asked. "Was he sending her flowers or something?"

"I don't know. Doesn't look like a flower to me." Moving to his own desk, he dropped the leaf back into the envelope, and set both it and the letter down. "A dead end for now. Keep looking through those records." He glanced once at Fuery's friend, before settling back to the floor beside his own chosen box; he couldn't remember ever the man before, and he thought he was familiar with most of his men's acquaintances. The guy must be new.

Shaking himself back to the present, he picked up the files he'd set aside. "When Falman gets back, he'll have to take a look at that letter. I need him to identify something for me."

Havoc nodded absently, blue eyes scanning a report. "Yeah, sure." His eyebrows lifted. "I think this has to be the only speeding ticket Hawkeye ever got. Says she was going a hundred and thirty in an eighty zone."

"Excuse me again . . . ." Fuery's friend interjected timidly. "Did . . . did I hear you say 'Falman,' sir? As in Warrant Officer Vato Falman?"

Roy looked up. "Second Lieutenant now, but yeah. You know him too?"

The man shrugged, smiling a little. "Only by reputation, sir. Sergeant Fuery's talked about him." He held up a few files. "I think I have what I need. Good night, sir."

"Tell Fuery we said hey," Havoc said off-handedly, eyes still on his task. "And that I'm sorry I didn't warn him about Breda's snoring."

The man smiled once more, before disappearing out into the hallway. Ed immediately leaned forward. "One-thirty in an eighty? Seriously?" He grinned. "What was she trying to do, break the sound barrier?"

"More than likely, she was in a hurry to bail the Chief out of trouble for the billionth time," Havoc remarked, already having moved on in his sorting. "I doubt the cop who wrote it held a grudge for a one-time infraction, though. Either of you find anything good yet?"

Al held up a report. "I've got a notice of intent to press charges," he said. "She caught some Private selling prescription pills out of his shooting range locker." He studied the page again. "Private . . . William Reed." He set aside, in a clear patch of floor. "That's the start of my 'possibles' pile, I guess."

"I've got nothing," Ed put in, shaking his head as he set three files in his own 'cleared' pile.

Falman fairly shot through the door, tense all over, grim-faced, and winded from what was clearly a sudden sprint. "Colonel, I think I found a better lead than anything you're going to find in those boxes!" He bent, hands braced on his knees. "I could have sworn I just passed Hargrave Fernley on the stairs."

"_What?!_" Roy's eyes were wide as they found the Second Lieutenant, papers forgotten in his hands. "Falman, are you sure; _absolutely_ sure?!"

"He was wearing a military uniform, but I never forget a face, Colonel."

Roy wasted no time in shooting to his feet — Havoc doing the same — and heading for the door. "Havoc, cover the west stairs; Falman, take the east. I'll take the centre. He does _not_ leave the premises, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!" was the barked response by both men. Havoc was practically a blue-and-blond blur as he swung around the doorjamb and went racing off down the hall. Falman went the opposite direction; Roy paused, one hand on the doorknob.

"And you two," he said darkly, addressing two semi-stunned Elrics, "are going to stay right here. Lock this door, and don't let anyone except myself, Havoc, or Falman in. Think you can handle that?"

He didn't wait for a reply, setting off after Havoc in an easy run. Behind him, he vaguely registered Ed yelling, "Yeah, but who's Hargrave Fernley?!" He ignored the boy, focussing on this newfound mission instead. If Fernley was here, it could mean nothing good.

Pushing through the doors into the central stairwell, he pounded down the steps at a breakneck pace, teeth gritted. Why hadn't he seen it?! He'd been so distracted with the letter that Fernley had been right under his nose and had gone unnoticed. He should have recognized him straight off!

_Sloppy,_ he cursed himself. _This could be the man going after _your_ Riza, and you let him just waltz around within ten feet of you. Stupid, stupid, st—_

Wait . . . not 'could be.' '_Was_.' '_Is_.' A mental picture of that innocuous dried leaf, that papery, crumbly little green thing inside the envelope, flashed through his mind. _Of course_. A fern leaf. Hargrave _Fernley_. Something close to panic bloomed, hot and choking, in Roy's chest as his boots hit the next landing. That creep was the stalker, had to be, even if the evidence was circumstantial. He had motive, certainly had the means, and had had opportunity up until she'd gone into the safehouse.

_Armstrong. Got to get hold of Armstrong. Warn him._ _Warn Riza . . . ._

He reached the bottom of the stairwell, the only exits being into the first floor of the base itself, or out onto the walkways at the front. Roy's head swivelled one way, then the other; no, he wouldn't go outside. That was too obvious for a man of Fernley's intellect. Turning, he pushed through the doors into the main first floor hallway.

Deserted.

Chest heaving from lost breath and agitation, Roy forced his gaze to travel slowly from one point to another, trying to pick out likely hiding spots. Private offices and supply closets, meeting room doors that always stood ajar, wall outcroppings wide enough to obscure a man pressed into the recesses. Slowly drawing a glove from his pocket, he wriggled his hand into it but kept it at his side. Waiting.

"Fernley!" His voice echoed off the walls in the quiet structure; this late at night, the base was practically empty. No sound answered him, aside from his own breathing, and even that was beginning to quiet. "I'm not going to let you have her, Fernley, do you hear me?" Not so much as a whisper of air. "Get your ass out here, before you really start to piss me off!"

Nothing.

His teeth gritted in the continued silence, trying to think. Moving to his left, he tested the knob of a supply closet door; locked. Same with the office that stood next to it, and the outcropping across the way concealed no enemy. Crossing the hall, Roy briefly stuck his head inside an open meeting room. Empty. Three more locked offices, another vacant conference area. Any farther along this area, and Fernley risked being seen by pursuers as he fled.

Turning, Roy passed through the stairwell to the outside, just as Havoc and Falman met in front of the doors. "Anything?" he said, tightly.

Both men shook their heads. "Any use checking with the guards on the main entrance?" Havoc panted.

"No. He would've found a covert way in, rather than risk someone remembering his face," Falman said grimly. "I studied the man's profile extensively during Lieutenant Hawkeye's involvement with his case. She asked me for a second opinion as to his mental state."

Roy's stomach twisted, not wanting to know the answer to the question he had. "And what did you decide?"

The other stiffened uncomfortably. "Obsessive, little to no sense of right and wrong, highly skilled in surveillance . . . ." He swallowed hard. "And almost certainly insane."

* * *

He had abandoned the files stolen from Mustang's office in a trash can, almost immediately after leaving. Hargrave cursed himself that he hadn't realized Falman was back in the picture; he was supposed be up north, working in the frozen wasteland of Briggs. If there was one person other than Lieutenant Hawkeye that was able to recognize him immediately on sight, it was Falman. Him and his cursed memory.

Leaning back against the dank brick wall of the alley, a bare 200 metres outside the perimeter walls of the Headquarters, Hargrave allowed himself a few moment to catch his breath. He wasn't used to all this running about.

Crouching, he dug a handheld radio from under a pile of litter and switched it on. He was careful not to bring it too close to his face — the thing was filthy after being hidden here, and he wanted none of its dirt on his face, much less its smell.

Sound issued from it, faintly at first, growing stronger as the signal strengthened. Quieting his breathing, Hargrave listened intently. Yes, the transmitting device he'd planted on the underside of Fuery's desk seemed to be working just fine.

* * *

"So who the hell is Fernley?" Ed was practically explosive with the question.

Irritably pulling the glove from his hand, Roy tossed it down on his desk. "He's a criminal. A con man-slash-mugger with a violent streak a mile wide. Havoc, his file's probably in one of these boxes; see if you can find it." The blond man nodded, turning toward the box marked "D — J." Roy dropped wearily into his chair, rubbing at his eyes with thumb and forefinger.

Alphonse was the next to pipe up. "What does he have to do with the Lieutenant?"

"A few years back, Fernley messed up and picked the wrong victim," Havoc said, still digging through the box. "Hawkeye was walking home, and he stopped her. She was in civilian clothes, so he didn't recognize her as military and he didn't plan on her having a concealed weapon." Pulling a file from the box, he turned and leaned back against the desk, studying the cover. "She took him down."

Edward winced. "And now he's out of prison. Was he paroled, or did he break out?"

Flipping through the file, Havoc paused on one report. "Well, he was sentenced to seven years, but that was five years ago. No mention of whether he'd be eligible for parole."

"I wouldn't count on it," Roy said grimly. "Not with his past."

Alphonse shifted, still seated cross-legged on the floor. "Maybe . . . maybe one of us should go to the safehouse, for extra security." He frowned. ". . . Where _is_ the safehouse?"

"Close by, and that's all you're going to find out about it," Roy bit out, with a little more acid than he intended. He glanced over in time to see Al's gaze be redirected to the floor, guilt immediately coiling in his gut. "Sorry, it's just . . . the fewer people that know where she is, the safer she'll be."

"Kid's got a point too, Boss," Havoc put in. "How about I go over? I already know where it is."

Rubbing thoughtfully at his chin, Roy thought it over. Havoc was good with a gun, and Armstrong had his muscles . . . he hadn't arranged for Riza to have a weapon. Two armed men were better than one, especially if Fernley somehow tracked her down. "Yeah, okay. Her rifle's in her locker; make sure you take it to her." He glanced over as Falman re-entered. "Did you get hold of her?"

"No, sir." Falman's jaw had a grave set to it. "Not this time, or last time; I would have mentioned it, but the situation with Fernley was more urgent. The line is busy."

Roy's eyes narrowed. Something was going on . . . .


	7. Puzzle Pieces

_A/N: Convention weekend this weekend! And I, in my infinite fangirling, will be portraying the incomparable Riza Hawkeye, for the second year in a row. I am so freaking excited._

_I do not own FMA._

* * *

**Chapter Seven - Puzzle Pieces**

SAFEHOUSE  
DECEMBER 11, 2303 HOURS

Getting from her room to the telephone in the safehouse kitchen had been easy; Riza had simply waited until Armstrong had fallen asleep on the sofa-bed downstairs before sneaking down from her room. She had played the part of a good house-arrestee since waking at nine, and now, at eleven with her bodyguard snoring quietly, she put her personal plan into action.

Not above sneaking about when she needed to, Riza had long since found the best stride to move silently on almost any terrain. Feet bare, she eased down the stairs, walking on the raised edges to either side to avoid creaky steps, her hands braced on the wall for balance. She peered cautiously around the edge, studying the sleeping form of the Major.

He lay on his back, knees bent in order to fit on a bed that was manufactured for people of average height, his hands folded atop his stomach. Riza smiled, noting the amusing way his moustache fluttered every time he exhaled. Stepping off the stairway edges, she slipped noiselessly past the small landing and down two more steps to the living room floor.

Her silent stride was that of a dancer: poised on the balls of her feet, her steps long and sweeping, carrying her the distance in half the time. Riza ducked inside the door to the kitchen area and pressed her back against the wall, listening closely for any change in Armstrong's breathing. Two heartbeats . . . four . . . six . . . . After ten, she let out her breath softly through her nose, and nodded in satisfaction. Phase one was complete.

Gliding across the floor to the telephone mounted on the opposite wall, she lifted the receiver and tucked it beneath her ear and shoulder. Careful not to let the dial make too much noise, she entered the number she wanted and waited, listening to it ring.

"_Hello?_"

Keeping her voice to a whisper, Riza smiled in relief. "Good, you're home. Rebecca, I need help."

There was sudden alertness and worry in her friend's tone. "_What? What's wrong? Are you okay?_"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. It's not that kind of help." She winced, wondering if the other woman's concerned tone was audible outside of the phone on this end. "Just keep your voice down; I'm not exactly swimming in phone privileges."

"_What do you mean you're —_" There was a pause, and then a giggle. "_Did you really just say your 'phone privileges' got taken away? What did Mustang do: ground you?_"

"In a manner of speaking, yes." The giggle was immediately silenced. "I'm at a safehouse, and I'd really rather not be. But that's beside the point." Folding her arms, Riza leaned back against the counter, staring down at the floor and her own bare toes.

"_Right. You said you needed help._" She could practically hear Rebecca curling up on the end of a couch. "_What's up?_"

"The Colonel doesn't know I'm doing this, but . . . ." She hesitated, glancing to the room where Armstrong slept. "I can't just sit here and do nothing. I want to get as much information as I can on what's going on. Not just from you: I've got other sources I can call in too."

Rebecca's tone was finally serious; she was beginning to grasp the gravity of the situation. "_Sure. The lead on Danford Morser: did that not pan out?_"

"I didn't have time to check with him." Reaching up, Riza rubbed tiredly at her eyes; even after that forced nap, she still felt drowsy. "But it's all gotten bigger; much bigger. The info I need from you now . . . it's nothing as interesting as poking around the fringe for intel."

"_I'll manage. What do you need?_"

"I need a line on whatever the others in the unit might have discovered while I'm not there." She tried hard not to let her scowl show in her voice, knowing she wasn't succeeding particularly well. "The Colonel's going to keep me out of the loop on this as much as he can, and call it keeping me safe, and I can't let him do that. I'm not one to sit idly by while others are out doing all the work."

"_Sounds about right for you_," Rebecca said, only half-amused. "_But I notice you haven't told me _why_ Mustang locked you up in the first place. Riza, what's going on?_"

Riza swallowed hard, regretting getting her friend involved in this mess . . . and knowing it was already too late to turn back. "There's someone after me, Becca." That one use of a nickname would be hint enough as to how serious she was about this, and how much trust she was placing in the other woman's skills. "I don't know who it is just yet, but I know they're serious. That's why the Colonel put me here; so that whoever it is can't find me."

For a long moment, there was silence. "_And . . . you think whoever is targeting you . . . was targeting Nickelson too?_"

She froze.

This possibility hadn't even been considered until now, hadn't occurred to her in the slightest. Eric's death had been . . . had been ruled as a robbery gone wrong, but for that strange alphanumeric sequence the shooter had given Marian.

No. For the shooter to have done that meant it was so much more than a robbery: it was a deliberate killing. A hit. Meaning the improvised bomb in the bar . . . . Should that have killed her? Frowning intensely, mind racing, Riza leaned back against the counter. No; no, she was meant to survive that blast. It was merely something to get her attention. And if the hit on Eric and this strange man's obsession with her were linked, then he'd made a point of not injuring anyone else. Yes: the last letter had made it clear he was focussed solely on her.

But it was still an extremely tenuous link. If Eric's killer and her stalker were the same man, then why had he not simply knocked on her door and shot her when she answered? Or come up to her on the street and killed her there? Or —

"_Riza? Hey! You still there?_"

She jumped, suddenly remembering the telephone in her hand. "Yeah; sorry. You just . . . got me thinking." Dragging one hand wearily across her face, Riza took a deep breath. "I . . . I don't know yet if the two problems are linked. I'll have to think about it more. In the meantime . . . will you get me the information I asked for?"

"_Absolutely. Any particular target you want me to use?_"

She bit her lip, thoughtful. "I'd say Havoc is your best bet. He's got a bit of a soft spot when it comes to you, and I'd be willing to bet he'll tell you anything if you act worried enough."

"_Sure._" A smirk. "_If he doesn't, I can always shoot him._" There was a brief pause, before the smile disappeared from Rebecca's voice, and worry took its place. "_. . . Are you sure you'll be all right?_"

"I'm sure." Riza smiled grimly. "I'll call you tomorrow night, see what you've come up with. And thanks."

"_Anytime. If I see Mustang, want me to punch him for you?_"

"That's all right. I'll do it myself."

Hanging up as quietly as she could, Riza stayed motionless, leaning back against the counter. How could she have been so stupid? All this time, she'd been focussed on the fact that her stalker had sensitive information against her, and she had completely forgotten that he'd confessed to killing Eric. Why confess if he hadn't? In retrospect, when he'd called her at the hospital, she should have had him repeat the serial number as confirmation . . . .

"Stupid . . ." she cursed, under her breath. _He killed a good friend of yours, and now he's after you, and you didn't stop to put two and two together,_ she thought acidly. _Some professional you are._

_But why me?_ some small part of her mind wondered. _Why Eric? Why us?_

There was the connection from the coffee shop, of course, and the fact that Eric was one of her sources around East City. But she had other contacts too, not just here, but in Central, in Briggs . . . . Could they be next? The thought occurred that this stalker might be trying to cripple Roy's own network by taking out crucial members of it, and had simply taken some sort of fascination with her because —

Because why? There was no reason for it. No, she was definitely the target here, not him. There was some connection that she was missing, some reason why the stalker would want Eric dead, and be putting her through this . . . this mental torture, for lack of a better term.

What had she known about Eric? Settling cross-legged on the floor, Riza leaned back against the cabinets, hands folded in her lap. He and Marian had lived in East City for twenty-six years, moving there from a little town in the South. Eric had worked in the gold mines then, and when it dried up, they left the region. He hadn't served in the military, aside from working briefly in the Eastern Headquarters mess hall for a year or two before opening the café.

Riza had started visiting the shop in the mornings when she was first stationed in East City, under Roy, though not often. For three years, she'd mainly stuck to two places: her apartment, and the office. She was new in the city, had never lived in the city prior to starting in Roy's office, and had no idea that the Nickelsons' café even existed. She'd only met Eric because of —

The trial. She'd met Eric at the trial. He was on the jury, she was a witness and when she dropped her purse on the steps of the courthouse, he'd picked it up for her, had seen how nervous and upset she was by the proceedings, had offered her a cup of tea to calm down, hadn't taken 'no' for an answer.

The trial. Amestris versus — She automatically sat a little straighter, an idea flickering into being. What had the docket number been . . . ?

And abruptly, she got it.

Riza's hands lifted to cover her mouth. "Oh, _fuck_." The curse slipped out, but she past caring about what she said just now. "Dammit. Of course . . . . It all fits . . . ."

Getting to her feet, she picked up the phone again, dialling a single '0' this time. A brief pause, and then the operator acknowledged. "I'd like to place a call to Central."

"Yes, ma'am. And whom are you calling?"

"Maria Ross. 12 Nordstrom Street."

"Very good, ma'am. One moment, please."

There were a pair of clicks, and the phone began to ring. Riza resisted the urge to drum her fingers on the counter, knowing the noise would only risk waking Armstrong. At last, there was a final click, and a half-awake "_Hello_?"

"Ross, it's Hawkeye. Did I wake you?"

"_ . . . What time is — wait._" The voice abruptly lost some of its sleepiness. "_Hawkeye? As in Lieutenant Hawkeye?_"

Riza lifted an eyebrow. "You know others?"

"_Crap. I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realize —_"

"It's okay; I'm the one who's sorry, calling you this late. But I wouldn't if it weren't an emergency."

"_Right, right._" The younger woman seemed almost fully awake now, brought out of sleep by the surprise at this seemingly random call. "_What can I do for you, Lieutenant?_"

Riza breathed deep, glancing toward the door to the living room. "I know it's not the best time to do this, but I need someone to find a file in the Central Investigations archives, from a case that was tried in East City five years ago. And it can't wait until morning."

She was never more thankful for how seriously Maria took her job. "_Absolutely, sir. Do you have a specific file number for me to look for?_"

"Yes." Riza gritted her teeth. "Alpha-Victor-three-three-nine-two-five-dash-one-one."

"_Got it._" There was a pause, and then, "_Lieutenant, when I find this file, do I forward it to you in East City?_"

Dammit. She hadn't considered that; she'd just been focussed on reaching the file itself. ". . . No. Sign it out of the archives, and bring it home with you. Have the operator connect you to 427 Sterncliffe Avenue in East City. I'll be waiting."

"_Yes, sir. You can count on me._"

"I knew I could. I'll talk to you later."

"_Right._"

Hanging up for the second time that night, Riza breathed a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. Hargrave Fernley: of all the things she _didn't_ need, he was uncomfortably close to the top of the list. Especially if he had proof of the secret moments she spent with Roy.

Her head came up sharply at noise in the next room; within a split second, it was made painfully clear that Armstrong was getting up, out of bed. Riza grimaced, moving swiftly and silently around the counter, crouching behind it out of sight.

Footsteps entered the kitchen, there was the clink of a glass being taken from the shelf, and water ran from the faucet. A moment of the quiet sounds of drinking, followed by a second clink as the Major set the cup down. Riza tugged her knees tighter against her chest, praying that Armstrong's extra height wouldn't afford him enough of a glimpse over the counter to realize she was there.

She was still holding her breath when he lumbered from the room, and the springs of the sofa-bed announced that he was preparing for sleep once again.

It took half an hour for the average person to fall truly asleep, but fifteen minutes would be enough for the Major to drift off sufficiently for her to sneak past him. Until then, Riza thought grimly, she had nothing better to do than sit here and ponder what fate Fernley might be planning for her.

The fifteen minutes were almost up when light from a car passing on the street tracked across the wall. Riza's eyes followed it as she got to her feet . . . she froze when the light stopped, the sound of an idling engine coming from outside. Three seconds, and that disappeared, along with the light.

Someone had just parked outside the house. She kept her eyes on the window, hand drifting slowly to her lower back. Her fingers brushed the waistband of her pants, reminding her with a flash of annoyance that Roy hadn't seen fit to leave her a weapon.

Stealing silently across the floor, past the plain wooden table and the four equally plain chairs around it, she crouched beneath the window, peeping over the sill at the car parked in the street. Too dark to tell the model, let alone read the plate . . . or identify the person getting out of the driver's seat.

Her fingers searched out and found the loose floorboard beneath the window, pressing hard on one end. It clicked quietly, then edged upward as she moved her hand away. Prying it open, she removed the handgun hidden there with a tightly sly smile. So Roy hadn't given her one of her usual weapons; she still had her personal stash.

Another quick look revealed the shadowed visitor to be moving up the walk to the house. Civilian clothes, for sure; even in silhouette, the military uniform was highly distinctive. Ducking back beneath the sill, Riza edged out of sight before heading for the main hallway and the front door.

Every little sound seemed magnified in the profound silence. Her own breathing seemed to echo in her ears along with her speeding pulse, all but drowning out Armstrong's resumed snoring from the other room. Crouched, her back braced against the wide wooden jamb of the archway into the front hall, Riza held perfectly still, ears picking up the soft clicks and grinding of metal on metal as a key was inserted in the lock.

_A key?_ She frowned. Something was wrong here. If the mysterious visitor was breaking into the house, there would be far more clicks, less of the grinding noise, and more of a tinkling of thin metal sticks. In a word, lockpicks. That he had a key possibly meant someone with approved access to the house.

Rising from her crouch, gun raised and held ready to fire, Riza stepped out into the hallway just as the newcomer opened the door. "That's far enough," she said quietly. "Hands on your head."

"Wha — Hawkeye, it's me!"

Dropping her hands — and subsequently, her gun — to her sides, Riza rolled her eyes skyward. The adrenaline-fuelled pounding of her heart subsided to something normal. "Dammit, Havoc . . . . You're supposed to call ahead when you're approaching a safehouse. Do you realize I almost shot you?"

"We tried!" Reaching behind him, the blond man shut the door and turned the lock. "The line was busy, so we figured either something had happened, or someone was making a call."

The door from the kitchen into the living room burst open, Armstrong squeezing through to stand tall and imposing, fists held ready and every available muscle flexing. "Stand aside, Lieutenant; I'll deal with this intruder!"

"Stand down, Major!" Riza bit out in annoyance. "It's just Havoc."

Armstrong's moustache twitched slightly as he caught sight of the man in question, before he visibly relaxed. "I see. What is the meaning of this? You're supposed to call before —"

"The Colonel tried to call twice before he sent me over!" Getting exasperated, Havoc planted both hands on his hips. "For the last time, the line was busy." His eyes shot toward Riza in an accusing glare. "And I think I can guess why. You just couldn't keep your nose out of it, could you!"

"No, I couldn't!" She turned his own glare back on him, chin setting stubbornly. "I told the Colonel when he sent me here, I don't want anyone else getting involved with this if I can't be! It's not _right_!"

"Maybe so, but at least Fernley can't get to you here!"

Riza stared, the heat dropping out of her gaze faster than any bullet she had ever fired. Her breath caught in her lungs, air refusing to enter or leave until at last, she forced herself out of her surprise. "So I was right . . . . It _is_ him."

Havoc took a cautious step closer. "Yeah. He turned up at the office a little while ago: didn't try anything, just took some files from Fuery's desk and skedaddled. Falman recognized him in the hallway, but by the time he and I and the Colonel got to the exits, there was no sign of him." He hesitated, staring at the blank look on her face. "If it makes you feel better, the files he took weren't anything important. And we found the one from his trial."

"You found the _copy_ of the file," Riza corrected him, eyes on the floorboards, thinking hard. "The original is at the Central Investigations office, in the archives. And will be for the next —" She paused, quickly calculating time in her head. "Half an hour or so. I have someone retrieving it for me."

"If I could interrupt for a moment?" Clearly confused, yet still miraculously patient, Armstrong stood with his hands folded behind his back. "I realize that both of you know what you're talking about, but since I do not and I'm involved with this case, perhaps you could see fit to fill me in?"

* * *

ROY'S OFFICE, EAST CITY MILITARY HEADQUARTERS  
DECEMBER 12, 0837 HOURS

He dropped back to lay flat on the cold floor, arms spread-eagle to either side. "I didn't think it would be this hard," Roy muttered, only half to himself. "There's only so many places a guy like that would try to hide."

"Unfortunately, the number of places is anywhere between fifty and one hundred and thirty," Falman answered, chin propped in one hand at his desk. "There must be an easier way to track him than simply canvassing the city."

"If we had the master file, wouldn't it make it even easier?" Alphonse asked, studying the few meagre pages of the Fernley trial folder. "I mean, there would be witness lists, Fernley's contact information, anyone that he knew or hung around with . . . ." He looked up. "When did the Central archives say the file was checked out?"

"About fifteen minutes before we called." Edward, also sprawled on the floor didn't move, scowling up at the ceiling. "The idiot on desk stonewalled me when I asked who had it; said it was 'against policy to reveal that information.' And it is. What worries me is that this is a little too convenient: it could be that Fernley's got a friend on the inside."

"Which begs the question, why steal his own file?" Roy pointed out. "He already knows everything he needs to."

"I think you're looking in the wrong direction, Boss."

Four heads came up around the room to find Havoc standing in the office doorway, Armstrong looming behind him just outside. Paper fluttered as Roy bolted to his feet, fatigue suddenly gone. Dark eyes darted from one man to the other, expression a mixture of concern and annoyance. "What are you both doing here? You're supposed to be at the safehouse, guarding Hawkeye."

Havoc scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck, stepping inside; the Major did the same. "Yeah . . . about that . . . ."

"I take full responsibility for their desertion of their posts, sir."

Stepping from behind Armstrong's bulk, her hands folded calmly behind her back, Riza returned Roy's stare with a blank gaze. Hayate followed at her heels, tail wagging, oblivious to the grim mood in the room. "I asked them to bring me here. I have information that, from the sound of it, sir, you've been trying to get your hands on." Her eyes flicked around at the papers scattered on the floor, and the obviously tired men. "For most of the night, it would appear."

Taking a deep breath to keep his cool, Roy took a step forward. "You shouldn't be here, Hawkeye," he said, voice low.

"I shouldn't be, but I am." Her eyes were hard and flat when they came back to his. "And using the same trick as before won't work, Colonel. I am _done_ sitting on the sidelines."

For a moment, there was a terrible, interminable silence, the two of them simply staring at each other, both refusing to back down. Alphonse looked to his brother; Edward was watching the two glaring soldiers, golden eyes darting from Riza to Roy and back again. Falman remained perfectly still at his desk, hardly daring to breathe. Beside the door, Armstrong murmured, "I should be going . . . . There's a train to Central in two hours . . . ." No one paid him any attention as he slipped away, leaving Havoc standing tensely in the doorway.

At last, Roy's deep voice shattered the quiet. "If you don't mind, Lieutenant, I'd like a word with you. Privately."

"Of course. I was going to insist on it." Taking a step to the side, Riza gestured to the door. "After you, sir."

He stalked from the room, with her following at his heels, both still clearly internally furious. For the space of three heartbeats, the room was deathly quiet, before Havoc blew out the breath he'd been holding, shaking his head in resignation.

"She's gonna kill him."

* * *

He could feel the chill metal of the trigger beneath his fingertip, feel its resistance as he pulled it back. Hargrave's eyes twitched shut involuntarily at the sharp report of the gun, his hand jolting upward with the force of the recoil. He didn't bother to bring it back to its original aim: he knew he had achieved his goal.

He never bothered to watch his victims fall. They made a squishy sound when they hit the floor that turned his stomach if he watched; not so if he simply walked away. Just a sickening, heavy squish . . . .

"_I take full responsibility for their desertion of their posts, sir_."

Hargrave jolted awake at that voice, that smoothly professional, alto voice issuing from the receiver across the tiny room. Sitting upright in the small bed — practically a cot, really — he held still, holding his breath as he listened for that distinctive voice to repeat itself.

"_You shouldn't be here, Hawkeye._" Mustang, his tone full of dark warning and disapproval.

"_I shouldn't be, but I am._"

She'd returned. His prodigal Lieutenant had returned. Getting up from the bed, the creak of noisy springs drowning out the rest of her sentence, Hargrave grinned broadly. He should have known she wouldn't stay away too long. He settled into the desk chair, smiling at the little speaker.

"Come on, Colonel . . . . Tell her who's been following her . . . . Tell her about last night."

"_If you don't mind, Lieutenant, I'd like a word with you. Privately._"

Hargrave slouched, shaking his head. "Ah well . . . . Another time, perhaps." His smile reasserted itself as he folded his hands behind his head. "And perhaps . . . it will be sooner than you think."


	8. Compromise

_A/N: I found this chapter — like Chapter Five — difficult to write. I hate that Roy and Riza have to fight, but seriously: the man has it coming in spades._

_I do not own FMA._

* * *

**Chapter Eight - Compromise**

ROY'S OFFICE, EAST CITY MILITARY HEADQUARTERS  
DECEMBER 12, 0940 HOURS

Mentally going over her plan of attack in her mind, Rebecca breezed through the usual route to Mustang's offices. _Just pop your head in, ask where Riza is. When they tell you she's not here, ask Havoc to go for a cup of coffee. Drag him out if you need to._ The familiar door loomed up on her left, and she pushed through it, already smiling brightly.

Inside, she stopped in her tracks, smile disappearing into wide eyes as she stared at the mess of papers and boxes scattered about. "What the —"

Two blond young men looked up from gathering files together — the Elric boys. She'd only seen them briefly, after the coup, while visiting Riza in the hospital. To her right were the more familiar Falman and Havoc. She quirked an eyebrow. "Do I dare ask what's going on?"

Havoc smirked humourlessly. "It's been a weird couple days."

". . . I'll take your word for it." She glanced around the room again. "Any idea where Riza's gotten to?"

That drew a snort from the blond Second Lieutenant. "The conference room twenty metres down the hall, probably in the middle of a shouting match with the Colonel. Both of them looked ready to spit nails when they left."

* * *

He closed the door behind himself, having already held it open to admit his seething Lieutenant. Riza stood near the polished conference table, arms folded, and her back to him. Her posture was perfectly straight, though her shoulders rode high in angry tension; Roy's eyes narrowed as he caught sight of a gun in the holster he'd made sure to empty before leaving her at the safehouse.

"Where did you get a weapon?"

"I have my sources." She didn't turn. "Where do you want to start this free-for-all?"

Giving her a dark look, Roy circled so that he stood in front of her, drawing himself up to his full height. He may have only had a few inches on her, but he knew standing tall with a glare was a blatantly obvious signal that he was in no mood for sarcasm. "We might as well start from the beginning. Would you care to go first?"

His only confirmation was the angry flash in those brown eyes. "_Drugs_ in my _tea_?! _That_ is what you stoop to, just to get your own way?!"

"If you had gone along with it, maybe I wouldn't have had to!" he shot back. "Instead, you were so focussed on getting involved with this investigation that I'm willing to bet you were blind to the potential danger!"

Riza's chin tucked slightly toward her chest, her gaze glaring up at him through the fringe of her bangs. "That's a fool's bet, Colonel. Further proof that you're a fool to think I'd stay put any longer than I absolutely had to."

He felt his own shoulders tense. "You watch your tone with me, _Lieutenant_. I put you in that safehouse once, and I can do it again."

"That's not fair, sir! I can't be expected to sit still while I could be helping!"

Roy took a half-step closer, one hand lifting to lightly prod a finger against her shoulder. "And I can't be expected to let one of my people just throw themselves into harm's way! You may not like it, but there's a method to my madness, and that method happens to be making sure you don't get yourself killed!"

Shaking her head, Riza shifted to plant her hands on her hips. "You can't guard me twenty-four-seven, sir. This is going to come to a head sooner or later, and when it does, I'd rather have a hand in it than read about it in the papers."

"You're being self-destructive!"

"I see it as self-preservation!" The heat in her gaze flared as her chin came up in defiance. "If I assist in getting Hargrave Fernley back off the streets, then I've assisted in keeping myself safe. This time, I'm a bodyguard for _myself_."

He almost winced; she'd figured it out, that it was Fernley who was after her. "You can't watch your own back, Hawkeye. Even you don't have eyes that good."

She opened her mouth to retort . . . and closed it again without a sound. Her anger at him faded into a look of frustration; as well as he knew her, he knew exactly why. He could understand why she wanted so badly to be involved: Riza Hawkeye was not suited to watching work get done. She was meant to be _doing_ the work. She disliked being idle when there were goings-on at hand. He understood that he was the one thing standing in her way from doing as she usually did.

After a long moment, failing to find words, Riza bowed her head, looking down at her own boots. Something in Roy's heart cracked, regret flooding through him that he'd raised his voice to her, spoken harshly. But he kept his mouth shut, and waited. If he wanted to keep her safe, he had to endure this.

"In that case, sir . . . ." Even speaking softly, Riza's voice in the silence half-startled him. "Is there any chance that we could negotiate a compromise?"

She seemed so . . . meek. Curious, but still wary that her mood could change again, Roy canted his head to one side. "What kind of compromise?"

Riza's head came up, and there was no trace of meekness in the blank, business-like expression she wore. "The kind where I am allowed to work the investigation, under guard from anyone of your choosing. That means twenty-four hours a day, for as long as it takes to catch Fernley and shut him away again. I'll stay either here at Headquarters or —" There was a flash of distaste in her eyes. "— at the safehouse, just as long as I can be involved. And there's one more thing."

Roy's lip twisted just slightly. "What is it?"

Lowering her voice, even though the room was deserted, Riza murmured, "You and I will continue sorting out our issues when we can be sure we're completely alone."

He nodded once. "Agreed, to the second stipulation. As to the first . . . ." Roy paused, his gaze slipping off to the side as he considered her offer. She had a point . . . but something inside him didn't sit well at the idea of her being involved. Involvement meant Fernley had access. "I don't like it."

Ire blazed in her eyes again. "With all due respect, Colonel, this obsession of yours with protecting me is becoming downright smothering. We're not going to get anywhere if something doesn't give! You'll keep shutting me away somewhere, and I'll keep finding a way to escape."

For the briefest of seconds, he almost pulled her to him and kissed her. That fire in her eyes, the vehemence in her tone, the way her body seemed to practically bristle with fury — it was all crashing in on him, reminding him of the one thing he'd forgotten in all of this.

His urge to protect her, as her lover, as someone who had come so close to losing her in the past, was what had driven him to force her into the safehouse to begin with. And it had caused him to forget that above everything else, Riza Hawkeye was a fighter. She wouldn't have survived the Promised Day otherwise.

Roy had been desperate to get her out of sight, had acted out of that desperation, and now, it was back to bite him in the ass. He took a deep breath.

"I don't like it," he repeated, watching as Riza's eyes narrowed. "But I'm willing to make it work . . . under one condition."

She watched him, on high guard, until he cracked a hint of a half-felt smile. "You've always watched my back. It's high time that I watched yours."

Riza looked away again, back to the floor, and nodded. "Agreed, sir." She paused for a heartbeat, then added. "Perhaps we should have come to this compromise sooner. We could have saved ourselves time in the long run."

"We stalled ourselves with infighting," Roy said quietly, listening to the nuances of her tone. She was still business-like, without the undertone of closeness he knew only he could see. She was keeping herself emotionally distant from him, until they'd had a chance to 'sort out their issues,' as she had put it. "Though maybe, if I hadn't put you in the safehouse, Fernley wouldn't have come here looking for you."

"Maybe." She squared her shoulders, looking up at him once again. "Though it's in the past. We have no way of knowing. We should be focussed on stopping him before he tries something similar. And I think I know where to start."

Reaching out, Roy pulled one of the chairs out from around the table, gesturing her to sit. "I'm all ears."

Watching as he settled into the chair beside her, Riza folded her arms. "I met Eric Nickelson at Fernley's trial, three years after I was first stationed in East City. The man who called me at the hospital was Fernley himself: he confessed to killing Eric. At the time, I didn't believe him, but in retrospect, I'm ninety percent certain that it was his voice."

Roy lifted an eyebrow. "Only ninety percent?"

"It's been five years since I heard that voice, sir, but even with a ten percent chance that I'm wrong, I'd take the bet that it was him. The alphanumeric sequence that Eric's murderer gave Marian was Alpha-Victor-three-three-nine-two-five-dash-one-one." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "The docket number from Fernley's case."

He felt his eyes widen as realization struck, one hand curling into a fist. "Of course . . . . Alpha-Victor. Amestris versus. Three-three-nine-two-five would be the case number."

Riza nodded grimly. "And Fernley was convicted in nineteen-eleven. One-one."

"All right. You said that gave us a place to start."

Reaching into her pocket, Riza withdrew a folded piece of paper. "I had the case file signed out of the Central Investigations archives, and the information inside relayed to me by telephone. Around three o'clock this morning, I got a list of anyone involved with the case that might be a target."

Roy leaned forward as she unfolded the paper on the table, dark eyes scanning the list of names. One name under the heading 'Judge,' two under 'Lawyers,' twelve under 'Jury' including Eric Nickelson, and six under 'Witnesses,' the first of which was Riza Hawkeye. "Good thinking. Have you checked any of these out, yet?"

"No, sir." She looked toward him, with the barest trace of a sarcastic smile. "I was hoping for your assistance in that, providing you'd let me out to play."

He smirked to himself. "So this is your ticket back into the investigation." Getting to his feet, he offered a hand to help her do the same. "Very well, Lieutenant. Let's see what your lead brings us."

* * *

LAW OFFICES OF KRUEGOR AND LENG  
DECEMBER 12, 09:45 A.M.

"Mr. Bulwer?" The pretty brown-haired secretary leaned around the edge of the open doorway. "I've finished the master list of witnesses, and the opening statements for your court session tomorrow. If it's all right with you, I've got an appointment I need to keep; I shouldn't be more than a few hours."

"Of course." The man behind the desk looked up just long enough to flash a smile. "I have a meeting at one-thirty, out of the office, so I might be gone by the time you get back, and I don't expect I'll be back until tomorrow morning."

"Yes, sir. Have a good afternoon, then."

Francis Bulwer turned his attention back to the legal brief in front of him on the desk, eyes tracking slowly and deliberately through line after line of legalese. Reading it was no small feat for ordinary men; it was a skill indoctrinated into him by the years of law school.

_. . . at which point the Defendant will be tried on three counts of assault with a deadly weapon. If found guilty, the Defendant will be sentenced fairly under the law at a separate hearing; if innocent, he/she will be_ —

There was a soft knock from the door, interrupting the train of thought necessary for focus. Bulwer looked up with a smile. "Did you forget something, Miss Nash?" The humoured smile on his face disappeared as he caught sight of the man standing in the doorway.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bulwer. Miss Nash wasn't at her desk, but I saw your door was open. May I come in?" Without waiting for a reply, Fernley breezed inside. "I don't believe I ever had the pleasure of being in your office. You know — way back when."

Getting cautiously to his feet, watching as his unexpected guest closed the door, Bulwer kept his hands clearly visible, fingertips set on the top of his desk. "Mr. Fernley. I can't say I was expecting to see you. I was under the impression that the judge had recommended no parole for you."

"Oh, he did." Settling comfortably into one of the visitors' chairs in front of the desk, Fernley smiled serenely. "But I've been such a good boy the last five years; I just _had_ to get out and see how the world has changed. You'll be pleased to know, I'm sure, that you haven't changed a bit. A bit more grey in the hair, but that's to be expected. The unfortunate circumstances of us all, really."

Bulwer glanced toward the door: there was almost no chance of making an escape that way. Fernley was far too quick, and he had the burden of desk work and restaurant lunch meetings around his middle. He'd never make it. "That it is," he agreed gravely. "So to what do I owe your sudden visit, Mr. Fernley?"

"As I said: I'm simply seeing how the world has changed, and I'd like to talk to you," the man said. He crossed one leg over the other, elbows on the arms of the chair and hands folded in his lap. "You caused a very big change in my life, Mr. Bulwer, and I'd like to tell you about it."

"Really." He didn't dare sit. At least on his feet, he had a chance to run if Fernley made a move for him. Bulwer began to desperately hope that one of his colleagues on this floor would stop in to chat or get his advice on a case, and save him from a conversation or worse with this dreadful man.

"Oh yes. They say prison changes a man, but —" He spread his arms and smiled. "I think I've held on to myself rather nicely, don't you? I kept myself busy, of course. The library there got quite sick of seeing me." The pale blue eyes fixed on the lawyer narrowed. "I read every scrap of information I could on my own case, Mr. Bulwer. You said some very nasty things about me."

Sweat broke out in his underarms. "Like what? It was five years ago; I don't remember every —"

"You said I was a madman. A trigger-happy loon. A man with a first-class ticket to the funny farm that hadn't been collected by the conductor yet." He laughed quietly, wagging a finger. "That last one was very clever. But it hurt deeply, Mr. Bulwer. I'm a sensitive sort, you know."

Folding his hands behind his back, the lawyer breathed deep, reaching for the calm, confident frame of mind he so often had in court. "I'm sure you are. But what about this 'big change' I contributed to? You said prison hadn't had an effect on you."

Getting to his feet, arms folded across his chest, Fernley paced toward the window. "It was the change between being a free man and an incarcerated one. I'm not much for strict routine; I prefer to . . . what's the saying . . . 'fly by the seat of my pants.' And by putting me in jail, you effectively ruined my life."

Crossing his arms, Bulwer watched Fernley's back, inching backward as silently as possible. If he could make it as far as the door while his back was turned, he might have a chance. "Is that what you came here to tell me?"

"Well yes, in a sense. I wanted to make sure you know that you're at fault for what happened to me, for my going to prison. A fair portion of the blame is riding around on your fat shoulders, Mr. Bulwer." He turned, and the lawyer stopped his sneaking, trying hard to appear unfazed and innocent. "But I can take it from you if you wish."

"Is that so?" Bulwer wasn't entirely sure what this conversation had been about; after all, Fernley had only barely passed a psychological evaluation determining whether he was mentally fit for trial. The time spent locked up may have only exacerbated the problem. "And how would you manage that?"

"It's quite simple."

Fernley moved more quickly than Bulwer could react, lunging past the desk to send the edge of his stiffened right hand slamming into the side of the lawyer's neck before he could do much more than make a strangled noise of panic. Bulwer's eyes rolled back in his head as he dropped like a stone to the carpeted floor.

Standing over his victim, pale eyes gleaming with sick, vicious delight, Fernley grinned. "Don't worry, Mr. Bulwer," he said softly, eyes going to the large picture window behind the desk. "You won't feel a thing."

In contrast to his slim build, Fernley possessed the strength to shift Bulwer's deadweight. He dragged him around behind the desk, propping him against the window. Taking the man's handkerchief, he wrapped it around his hand, before methodically striking the glass. It shattered, shards falling to the street nine stories below. Screams and yells echoed up, before Fernley turned back to his victim.

"Goodbye, Mr. Bulwer. I release you from the blame you share in sending me to jail."

With the lawyer already positioned in front of the window, it was the work of a single strong push to send him backward through the broken pane and tumbling down to the concrete.

* * *

ROY'S OFFICE, EAST CITY MILITARY HEADQUARTERS  
DECEMBER 12, 1023 HOURS

When they re-entered the office, it was to four apprehensive glances and one cry of "About time!" Pushing off from her spot leaning against Havoc's desk, Rebecca stormed across the floor, glaring at Riza the entire way. "You ask me to help you get information, get me _worried_ that some nutcase is coming after you, then just show up out of the blue anyway?!"

Riza grimaced. "I'm sorry; I didn't know I'd be coming back here so soon. But new information came to light since then that needs to be —"

"_New_ information?!" Rebecca exploded, now practically nose-to-nose with her best friend. "Let's focus on the information that states that someone's painted a big red target on you! What the _hell_ did you do to piss someone off this badly?!"

Her face a perfect deadpan, Riza kept her voice calm and low. "I sent him to prison."

Rebecca blinked twice, taking in the statement. "Prison. Is this one of the anti-terrorism cases you worked?"

"No. This was personal." Riza was quiet a moment, watching the other woman's face. "Do you remember?"

For a pair of heartbeats, Rebecca frowned, puzzled . . . and then abruptly got it. "Oh my gosh . . . ." Stepping close, she wrapped her arms around her in a hug. "Oh gosh . . . . I'm sorry I yelled, I just . . . I didn't know it was that guy in particular. Why didn't you tell me on the phone?"

Electing to ignore the stares of Havoc, Falman, and the Elrics — none of whom had ever seen this sort of interaction between her and anyone — Riza reached up to put a reassuring hand on Rebecca's back. A brief contact, and as much as she was willing to give in a professional environment. "I couldn't be sure the safehouse phone line was secure," she answered. "If it wasn't, then the less you knew about my pursuer, the better. It was information that couldn't be used against you."

Disengaging herself from the embrace, she sighed in resignation. "Unfortunately, now that you know, you're in as much danger as anyone else working this case." She nodded toward the door. "If you wanted to leave now and pretend you never heard from me, it's not too late."

Rebecca's fingertip levelled itself at the point of Riza's nose. "Ohhhhhh no. No you don't, missie. I did _not_ run guns, save your behind, and have my soul torn out during the Promised Day just to go slinking off when things get tough for _you_." The finger wagged warningly. "Nine years of friendship goes a long way, Ri."

That drew a small, close-mouthed smile. "I had a feeling you'd say that. But I had to ask, offer you a way out if you wanted it."

Rolling her eyes, Rebecca folded her arms. "Whatever you're doing is ten times more interesting than grading firearm qualifications. I've been doing that for six months, and if I see one more man that doesn't know how to use a gun, I'm gonna —"

"I hate to interrupt," Roy said pointedly, "but can we move on? If we're all going to be working on this, we should be up to speed on what we're dealing with."

Riza was already looking his direction when his gaze turned her way. "Understood, sir. You may all want to have a seat; it's something of a long story."


	9. Trials and Tribulations

_A/N: Next week is Royai Week, with the day itself falling exactly one week from today. I've got a VERY special chapter lined up for you all . . . and I think you'll like it. ;) _

_I do not own FMA._

* * *

**Chapter Nine - Trials and Tribulations**

"Hey."

Steam wafted across her face, along with the scent of fresh coffee. Eyes dragging open, Riza drowsily took in the plain white mug and fingers wrapped around the handle. Strong fingers, calloused from the battlefield, tiny, pale burn scars undetectable unless up close . . . . Abruptly, she sat bolt upright.

"I'm sorry, sir!" She glanced quickly at the paperwork her head had rested on, making sure there were no ink smears obscuring words, or worse, smudging onto her cheek. "I'm sorry, I had no idea I'd fallen asleep, I —"

"Whoa, take it easy." Resting a hand on her shoulder, Roy smiled. "When are you going to learn that I don't care if you fall asleep when you're working after hours? I've got couches in here for a reason, Lieutenant." His eyes scanned her briefly. "That being said: are you all right?"

Taking a deep breath to calm the adrenaline-fuelled racing of her heart, Riza nodded. "Yes, sir. I just . . . didn't get much sleep last night."

Roy's eyes narrowed. "You left at eight o'clock last night. I drove you home, I watched you go inside." Realization struck and he waved a warning finger under her nose. "If you kept working on that file you took home with you . . . ."

"I did, because it needed to be finished," she answered, without a trace of guilt.

He sighed, eyes rolling skyward in a bid for patience. "Hawkeye . . . ." Shaking his head, he left the mug on her desk, both hands going to his hips. "You're going to run yourself ragged, working like this! What am I going to do with you?"

Turning her attention back to the papers in front of her, Riza didn't even bother to shrug. "I don't know, sir."

A moment later, the papers were plucked from her hands, Roy sauntering back to his desk with them in one hand and coffee in the other. "I'll take care of these. You go home; get some sleep."

"Sir, I —"

Opening the top drawer of his desk, Roy deliberately looked her in the eye before dropping the papers inside and closing it. "There. They're taken care of. You can pick them up tomorrow morning, Lieutenant."

She cracked a faint smile. "Understood. Thank you, sir. Please make sure you don't stay too late yourself."

"I won't." He watched her cross the room. "Good night, Hawkeye."

"Good night, sir."

The halls were deserted this late at night. Most daytime personnel were gone by six-thirty or seven, let alone nine-thirty like now. Her booted footsteps made the only noise as she walked, echoing faintly off the smooth walls. Pushing through the doors to the stairwell, she stifled a yawn. Roy was right: she really did need to sleep.

The stop at her locker was brief, just long enough to change her clothes. Early summer was upon East City, and only fools or those with a high tolerance for warm temperatures wore their uniforms outside if they had a choice. Dressed in a light button-up shirt and brown pants, her military ID in her pocket to let her past the guards, Riza exited the locker room, heading for the main doors of the building.

Five minutes later, she was on the sidewalk in front of Headquarters, moving west along the street toward her neighbourhood. Half an hour on foot was thoroughly enjoyable this time of year, even at night. It remained balmy even after the sun had set, streetlights illuminating her way home.

_Home_. Riza was quite fond of her little apartment, set over top of a bookstore. It smelled of ink and paper, and the lavender perfume of the store's elderly female owner. It was cozy and private: just the way she liked it. Her thoughts turned to longing ones of her bed as she turned south onto another street. Just to stretch out in soft linen and drift off, rest up for another long day . . . .

She almost didn't hear the footsteps that suddenly fell in behind her. Riza glanced back over her shoulder at the fair-haired man pacing her by about five feet, his attention on something else across the street.

She was about to face forward again, scold herself that she was being paranoid and that she had nothing to worry about, when the man looked her way. His eyes, pale blue and gleaming catlike in the dark, told her that he was trouble.

The man's lips parted in a smile, probably meant to be friendly or even charming; all Riza saw was sinister intent. "Evening, Miss," he said, his voice a smooth tenor. "Awfully nice night to be out walking alone."

Riza faced forward again. "It is," she agreed. "And that's how I intend to remain. Alone."

Catching up, the stranger fell in beside her. "Forgive my saying so, Miss, but a pretty young lady like you should _never_ walk alone, especially not so late at night." His elbow was moved toward her. "Please: allow me to see you safely home."

"Thank you, but no." She kept her eyes forward. "I've made this walk alone many times. I'll be fine."

"I'm sure you will be." There was a quick motion from his right hand, with an accompanying click; he held up the switchblade with the same smile as before. "You'll be fine, as long as you do exactly as I tell you."

Riza stopped, the man doing the same he turned to face her. "And if I don't?"

"I'd hate to ruin a beautiful face like yours." The man gestured at her purse with the knife. "Surely you know how a mugging works, my dear. I'll be needing whatever valuables you carry in that bag. Don't be shy, now, go on."

Undoing the clasp on the bag, Riza reached into its depths. "Of course. I'm should have realized sooner what this was. How silly of me." Withdrawing her hand, she took a long step back. The bag dropped to the ground as she brought the gun to bear on her would-be robber's chest. "This is the most valuable thing I own."

The man broke into a grin. "Oh ho! I like a girl with a bit of spark in her! Well done, dear, well done! But there's a big difference between holding a gun and pulling the trigger." He held out a hand, palm up. "We both know you can't bring yourself to do that, so why don't you just —"

_Bang!_

Bringing the weapon back from its recoil, Riza smiled tightly. The man merely seemed shocked from the bullet that had gone whistling by, a hair's-breadth from his ear. "Next one is in your shoulder if you don't drop the knife."

Metal clattered against stone as the man let go of his weapon; a flick of his boot sent it skittering away into the shadows of an alley. "Clever girl," he murmured, eyes glinting in the overhead glare of the streetlights. "But now what? You have no handcuffs, no way of securely marching me to the police, and no guarantee that I'll just let you walk away."

Riza ignored him, lifting one finger from her supporting hand to point to the side. "Put your face to the wall, arms spread to either side."

He did so, though not quietly. "One would think you have practice at this," he said, as she ran one hand over either arm, down each side, across his torso and back, down each leg. "Let me guess: off-duty military police."

"Just military." Reaching into his back pocket, Riza snagged his wallet with two fingers. Flipping it open, she glanced at the ID card inside. "Hargrave Fernley, is it? I'd say I'm pleased to meet you, but under the circumstances, it's hardly appropriate."

"It is, isn't it."

Fernley pushed backward off the wall, his elbow driving past Riza's gun and into her chin. With a strangled noise of surprise caught in her throat, she fell back to the sidewalk, the gun dropping from her surprised fingers. Fernley turned in time to kick it away.

His hand fisted in the front of her shirt, hauling her to upright, face close enough to send hot breath washing across hers. "Stupid little bitch," he whispered, his smile a leer in the dim light. "Didn't a man ever show you your proper place in this world?"

"Only one," she answered past an aching jaw. "My place is beside Lieutenant-Colonel Roy Mustang. Let me go now, and it might be that neither of us will hunt you down for attacking a military officer."

Fernley's eyebrows lifted, though his expression remained unimpressed "Roy Mustang, eh? The Flame Alchemist himself. Very interesting." He canted his head to the left. "Perhaps you can tell me: how well does he respond to ransom demands?"

"I wouldn't know." Pulling backward, Riza brought her right knee up with as much force as she could muster, slamming it between Fernley's legs with a satisfying impact. His grip on her relaxed as he toppled to the pavement, eyes almost impossibly wide as he clutched himself.

"The Colonel's people are too well-trained to be taken hostage that easily," Riza said, standing over him. Taking her own belt, she wrapped it securely around his wrists, binding them behind his back. Next, she unlaced his shoes, wrapped the brown strings around his ankles and knotted them firmly. Leaving him there on the sidewalk, she calmly collected her gun and moved to the phone booth a mere twenty metres away.

"Good evening, sir," she said, when Roy answered the office telephone. "I'm near the corner of Victory Way and Sixth Street with a surprise package for you. Would you mind meeting me?" Hard brown eyes watched Fernley struggling uselessly. "Immediately, if possible."

* * *

The courtroom was large, to say the least. The vaulted ceiling rose a good forty feet above the floor, the room itself extending nearly twice that. A tall, polished wooden counter stood at the far end, raised above the rest of the floor: the judge's bench, behind which was seated the man himself, a large-nosed middle-aged man with greying hair and a naturally stern expression.

Before him were two heavy wooden tables, the one on the left hosting the prosecuting attorney, the other before Fernley and his lawyer. The twelve chairs of the jury were off to the far left under the tall frosted-glass window, surrounded by carved wooden railings. The seats behind the trial area were half-filled with people.

Seated three rows from the railing separating the viewing gallery from the trial area, Riza watched the proceedings with her fingers knotted together in her lap. She had never admitted it, but Fernley unnerved her. With his pale eyes and twisted psyche, he was outside the realm of what she was used to dealing with, and only the application of parade ground training allowed her to keep it hidden, except for one small thing.

Her fingers remained firmly clasped around each other to stop them from shaking.

"You sure you're all right?" Roy murmured for the fifth time. Seated beside her — for moral support, he'd said — he was dressed like her, in full uniform.

"I'm fine, sir."

"Your fingers are turning white."

Consciously unclenching her hands, Riza brushed primly at the fabric of her skirt, smoothing away non-existent wrinkles. "It's nothing. I'm simply a little nervous. Speaking in front of large groups has never been my strong suit."

"Well, promise me this, then." He quirked a smile, eyes forward on the prosecuting attorney that was pacing as he spoke. "If, to help yourself cope, you start picturing the audience in their underwear, you'll at least make mine look nice."

Folding her hands together again, Riza made sure to keep her expression straight. "That could be a problem, sir. If I picture you in your underwear, I might just faint altogether."

He shot her an amused look just as the defense attorney spoke. "The Defense has no questions for the witness at this time, Your Honour. We do request, however, that they be ready to appear for cross-examination should we find a question for them."

"Very well." The judge made a note on the pad of paper before him, before looking up again. "The Prosecution may call its next witness."

"Yes, Your Honour. The Prosecution calls Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye."

Taking one last deep breath, Riza got to her feet. "Showtime. Wish me luck, sir." Turning, she moved past the two empty chairs to their right, out into the aisle. From behind her, there was a whispered "Knock 'em dead."

She made the walk from her seat to the witness stand with perfect poise and military dignity. Back straight, hands relaxed at her sides, swinging subtly with the movement of her stride, the click of her black pumps echoing faintly from the walls. Light murmuring broke out among the spectators, though not enough to warrant a rap from the judge's gavel. Stopping before the raised wooden chair, Riza turned to face the bailiff and raised her right hand.

"Second Lieutenant, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

"I swear."

"Upon what do you swear?"

For a breath, she glanced in Fernley's direction: he sat forward, elbows on the table before him and fingers laced together under his chin. Those haunting eyes watched her, lit almost with happiness. He had been waiting for her to appear, she realized.

Riza's gaze swung back to the bailiff, her chin lifting in defiance of the man staring at her from the defense table. "I swear upon the Amestrian military and my place within it."

"Very well." He gestured to the chair behind her. "You may sit, Lieutenant."

Settling into the hard wooden seat, she crossed her right leg over the left, folding her hands neatly in her lap. _Don't fidget. Stay calm. Face blank._ Watching the prosecutor take one last glance at his notes before starting her way, she put all her sniper training — those endless hours of sitting perfectly still — into play. Fernley would never know he made her nervous.

Hands folded behind his back, the prosecutor smiled warmly. "Afternoon, Second Lieutenant; I'm pleased that you could join us." He stopped several feet away, inclining slightly forward from the waist in the approximation of a polite bow. "My name is Mr. Bulwer."

Watching him evenly, Riza didn't crack a smile. "I'm aware of who you are, sir. I've been in the room, watching the proceedings the entire time." A chorus of smothered snickers came from the viewing gallery. "And speaking of the proceedings, should we not continue?"

Mr. Bulwer smiled in an indulgent way. "You misunderstand my intentions, Miss Hawkeye — or do you prefer to go by your rank?" A shrug was the only answer. "Miss Hawkeye, you're young, you're an impressionable, pretty girl. I'm simply trying to spare you the . . . the darker side of courtroom examination. Some of these questions can be quite . . . personal. I wouldn't want to emotionally damage you."

Riza caught the soft sound of Roy's snort of derision, allowing her look of patience to fade just enough for a hint of annoyance to show through. "Mr. Bulwer — or do you prefer 'Counselor?' — I am a veteran of the Ishvalan conflict, a master firearms specialist, and an officer in the Amestrian military. By all means —" She spread her hands expressively. "Give me all you've got."

The fatherly expression on Bulwer's face dropped away, becoming solemn with just a hint of irritation at being rebuffed in such a fashion. "Very well, Miss Hawkeye. Is it true that you were the intended victim of a mugging on the night of May twenty-fifth, nineteen-eleven?"

"Yes."

"And you were responsible for capturing your would-be attacker and giving him over into military police custody?"

"Correct."

"The man who attacked you: is he the same man as is on trial here today? That is, a Mr. Hargrave Fernley?"

She nodded. "He is."

"Good." Folding his hands behind his back, Bulwer turned and paced away across the polish hardwood floor. "In your own words, Miss Hawkeye, please relate for the record the incident on May twenty-fifth when you encountered Mr. Fernley."

Pointless questions. Questions she had already answered multiple times to the arresting MPs, to Roy, and now to this man. Setting her shoulders, Riza went through her story for what she hoped was the last time. "On my walk home from work, I was accosted by Mr. Fernley. I don't know whether his intent was just robbery or something more harmful, but the result would have been the same. I disarmed him, subdued him, and immediately called for backup from my commanding officer."

"Thank you." Turning, he headed back toward his own seat, nodding to the rising defense lawyer. "Your witness, Counselor."

In contrast to his rotund opponent, the defense lawyer, Mr. Patterson, was tall and rail-thin. Folding long-fingered hands in front of his ribs, he paced forward, looking thoughtful. "Second Lieutenant . . . in what capacity did you arrange for my client's arrest?"

She frowned, puzzled. ". . . I'm not sure I understand, sir. How do you define 'capacity?'"

"Well, you stated that you were off-duty, walking home. In your statement to the military police, you said you had changed into civilian clothes. So when you arranged for my client to be arrested, were you acting as a civilian, making a citizen's arrest, or as a military officer?"

Riza felt her eyes narrow slightly, her mind trying to figure out where he could be going with this. "I suppose . . . since I was off-duty, it was a citizen's arrest."

Patterson stopped in front of her, eyeing her critically for a moment. "I see. And prior to his alleged attack on you, Second Lieutenant, did Mr. Fernley speak to you at all?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

She could see it coming, now. He was going to make it seem as though she had misconstrued a simple conversation or action, and use it to impugn her reliability. Nevertheless, she took a deep breath. "Mr. Fernley approached me after I turned south on Sixth Street. He implied it was dangerous for a young woman to walk alone so late at night, and offered to see me home. I refused. He made an attempt — a verbal attempt — to insist —"

Patterson turned abruptly, pacing away toward the jury attempt. "And being the young woman you are, I find it more than probable that you mistook a simple gesture for something more sinister."

Head held high, Riza bit back the annoyance at her suspicion being proven correct. "There's no mistaking that your client pulled a knife on me, Counselor." A hush fell over those in the gallery. "A four-inch switchblade, double-edged, silver and black handle." Brown eyes watched as the lawyer looked back at her over his shoulder. "Details like that aren't imagined, Mr. Patterson."

"I suppose they're not." Turning, he began sauntering back toward his table. "However, Second Lieutenant, the knife that you claim Mr. Fernley threatened you with was never recovered from the scene of the alleged crime." He spread his hands. "You've given us a very good description, but we have nothing to match it to, and so your story of a mugging springs a few leaks."

Pausing just before sitting down, he smiled. "My mistake. Your story of a _supposed_ mugging. No further questions, Your Honour."

Riza barely heard the judge telling her she was free to leave the witness stand; all noise had faded into the background. The moment Patterson asserted the word 'supposed,' her eyes went to Fernley. He remained as he had been when she sat down, still with that happy gleam in his eyes. As she watched, his lips parted in a smile, showing teeth in the same sinister leer he'd had when he produced the switchblade.

"Second Lieutenant?"

Shaking herself out of her mental fog, Riza got to her feet, crossing the floor back to the viewing gallery. Behind her, the judge's gavel rapped. "We will have a two hour recess for lunch; court will reconvene at two o'clock."

Roy met her at the end of their row, eyes focussed on her face and filled with indignation. "That was a dirty trick," he murmured, passing her her purse. "So much for trusting the word of a military officer. We're _expected_ to be one hundred percent honest — whoa, hey . . . ."

Her head was bowed slightly, eyes distant, her fingers curled tightly around the thin purse strap. Bending slightly to better see her face, Roy put a hand on her shoulder. "Hawkeye? Are you all right?"

Riza swallowed hard. "I know what I saw, sir. I know what happened that night."

"I believe you. I've never known you to be a liar," he said gently. His hand moved to her elbow, guiding her past the rows of seats and to the door. "I'm going to make a call to Hughes, see if he can find something to help you out. Patterson used a loophole to discredit you; we're going to use a loophole to get that credibility back." Outside the courtroom, they turned left down the main corridor. "Look, why don't you go outside, get some fresh air. I'll come find you when I'm done on the phone, okay?"

She merely nodded, slipping her arm from his fingers. Following the main stream of people outside, she emerged onto the broad front steps of the courthouse. Bright sun caught her eyes, causing her to blink momentarily as they adjusted. Stepping carefully around other moving bodies, she moved away from the doors. There was a knee-high wall around the decorative flower beds out front that many people used as a bench; she could wait there for Roy without fear of being trampled in the pedestrian traffic —

Partway down the steps, a person knocked into her shoulder, sending her off-balance into the hard steel railing. The purse strap slipped from her shoulder, the little bag dropping down a pair of steps.

"Sorry about that, little lady." Bending, the older man who had bumped into her picked up the purse, dusting it off with his free hand. "So many people coming and going; it's a three-ring circus out here. I didn't mean to knock you over."

Looking up, his smile faltered. "Hey, now. You're that young lady they just had on the witness stand for the Fernley trial." Passing her the purse, strap first, his lip twisted. "Terrible thing they did you, poking holes in your story. That Patterson's just as shifty as his client, if you ask me."

"I'm sure you're not the only one who thinks so." Riza attempted a smile, knowing she failed even before she saw the man's reaction. "Thank you for your help; excuse me . . . ."

She made to edge past him, but he stopped her by way of a light hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure you're all right, Miss? Your face is all white. Like you've seen a ghost."

That drew a humourless half-laugh. "Not a ghost, no. But I feel like one." She shifted uneasily. "Fernley has . . . has a very piercing gaze. It just goes right through a person, and —" She stopped. What was she doing, telling things like this to a total stranger? "I'm sorry. I'm a little unsettled is all. I'll be all right."

"Of course you will be; anyone who watched you on that stand can tell this isn't how you normally are." Smiling broadly, the man held out a hand for her to shake. "Eric Nickelson."

Her fingers clasped his, her returning smile much smaller than his. "Riza Hawkeye."

"Tell you what, Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye." Reaching into his pocket, Nickelson pulled out a small pad of paper and pen, scribbling something quickly. "I own a small bake shop and cafe here with my wife; anytime you need to talk about this, or just want some tea and company, stop in." Tearing out the slip of paper, he passed it to her with a broad wink. "First one's on the house."

Patting her on the shoulder, he turned and headed away down the steps, leaving her to watch after him. Finally getting herself in motion, she mulled over the name. Eric Nickelson . . . she'd heard it when the trial began, so he was involved. He wasn't one of the witnesses that had been called so far, no others announced until they were to testify . . . meaning he had to be on the jury.

Looking down at the paper in her hand, she had to read carefully to decipher the messy scribble. _Barker Street Bakery and Cafe, 19 Barker St._ Not far from her apartment, maybe a ten minute walk from her usual route to Headquarters.

Maybe she would stop in after all, once this was all over . . . .


	10. Release

_A/N: Happy Royai Day! Why yes, I DID plan to have this particular chapter released on this particular day, and by the end, I think you'll see why. Warning: we are going beyond PG territory. Nothing overly graphic, but if you don't like that stuff, you don't have to read it._

_I do not own FMA._

* * *

**Chapter Ten - Release**

ROY'S OFFICE, EAST CITY MILITARY HEADQUARTERS  
DECEMBER 12, 1105 HOURS

When she was finished relating the story, Riza stood with her arms folded, leaning back against the front of her desk. Rebecca was watching her sympathetically, Havoc, Falman and Roy all wearing expressions in varying degrees of seriousness. Alphonse seemed thoughtful, as though he were mentally filing the information, and Edward just looked grim.

"As it was," she appended into the silence, "Fernley was convicted due to the testimony of other witnesses. His plan of attack was the same every time, so to the jury, the same story again and again was too much to ignore."

"So why is he focussed so much on you?" Ed asked, brow furrowing. "Were you the only female victim he had, or something?"

She shook her head. "Not the only female. But I was the only one that ever fought back, let alone won."

"You beat him at his own game," Falman murmured. "There's two options that I can think of for how a psychopathic mind would react in that case: either he admires you, for standing up to him . . . or, if he's a sore loser, he hates you most of all."

"If he's killing people over his trial, I'd bet it's the second one," Havoc said solemnly. "I mean, Eric Nickelson was on the jury, right? Hawkeye was a witness. She pointed Fernley out, and Nickelson helped lock him up." He paused, wearily dragging a hand over his face. "We should start tracking down the others."

"First, there's some of us that need to get some rest," Roy said firmly. "I've been up two nights already, others were up all last night trying to get intel . . . we're not going to be much good if we're yawning every two minutes. Anyone that was up all night: grab some sleep, be back here in four hours."

Rebecca lifted a hand for attention. "I'm all right; I can start running down names if you've got the list." She stepped forward, taking it as Riza held the ink-covered paper out to her. "I'll start as soon as I go inform the range boss about the change in my duties."

Falman spoke up. "Breda and Fuery are due to be released from the hospital by noon today; I'll go meet them, bring them up to speed, and have them report here to help Second Lieutenant Catalina if they're up for it."

"Sounds good," Roy confirmed, before looking to the Elrics. "You two want a ride back to your hotel?"

Edward shook his head. "Nah; it's not that far. And we've been sitting all night. We could use the walk."

"Right." His attention on his Lieutenant, he took in the black shirt, military pants, and boots she'd been wearing when he left her at the safehouse the afternoon before. Taking a step toward her, he lowered his voice. "I imagine you want to change clothes before we continue with this. We also haven't quite finished our discussion from earlier."

When those whisky-brown eyes flicked in his direction, he expected them to be either hot or cold with the anger she no doubt still harboured toward him; instead, they were flat, as expressionless as the rest of her face. "You imagine correctly, sir."

"Let's get moving, then." Digging his keys from his pocket, he tossed them to her before turning and heading for the door. "You're going to have to drive: I feel like my head's full of cotton balls."

* * *

EAST CITY MILITARY HOSPITAL  
DECEMBER 12, 1124 HOURS

Fuery had just pulled the left side of his jacket up over his shoulder, arm still in a supporting sling, when Falman knocked on the open hospital room door. "Oh! Second Lieutenant — sorry, sir, I didn't see you there." He saluted, smiling brightly. "Ready to go, sir."

That drew a smile from the older man. "Glad to hear it." He looked across to Breda stood near the window. "And you?"

Shifting from foot to foot, stretching each leg as the weight was taken off it, the redheaded man grinned broadly. "Can't get out of this place fast enough. It stinks like disinfectant."

"Good." Sobering, Falman folded his arms across his chest. "I've got orders from the Colonel for both of you. If you're up for it, Lieutenant Catalina needs help in running down everyone that was involved with the Fernley trial five years ago. Lieutenant Hawkeye provided us with a list of names, herself and Eric Nickelson included."

Fuery frowned in thought. "It sounds pretty basic, sir. But . . . last we were told, Lieutenant Hawkeye was in one of the safehouses. Did she list all those names from memory?"

The semi-silver-haired man shook his head with a wry smile. "She broke herself out: forced Armstrong and Havoc to bring her back to Headquarters, and convinced the Colonel to let her back in on the investigation." He held up his hands, palms outward in a forestalling gesture. "Don't ask me how; I have no idea. They had a private conversation, and when they came back, she was back in."

Breda snorted softly, shaking his head. "Chief should've known he couldn't keep her benched. I'd love to be a fly on the wall when she finally gets a chance to light into him." His head came up sharply. "Or did she already?"

"I haven't heard anything," Falman answered. "And believe me, as angry as they were at each other — her for him sending her to the corner, and him for her breaking out against orders — the entire base would have known." His lip twisted. "My guess is, she's waiting until she can get him alone. Which would be right about —"

* * *

"—now." Voice low and dark with annoyance, Roy jabbed an emphatic finger at the table between the two of them. "Right now, Hawkeye, out with it! Who's this source in Central that you're getting to play courier?"

"Someone we can both trust," was the calm answer. Hayate sat on the kitchen chair in front of her, her fingers scratching behind his ears though her attention remained on the fuming man standing in her kitchen. "That's not what matters here. What matters is that we have useful intel at last, and —"

Roy waved an impatient hand. "I know, I know. But 'someone we can trust' doesn't help me; I want to know whether or not this is someone else we should be worried about protecting or not. You said yourself, everyone involved with this case runs the risk of incurring Fernley's wrath, and I'd rather not have a dead body on my conscience!" His eyes narrowed. ". . . . Someone we can both trust . . . Grumman?"

She shook her head, giving in. "Ross. She . . . I didn't give her much choice, I'm afraid. I wasn't thinking. I made it an order." Riza's mouth set in a thin line. "I got the list, but I slipped up. I should have left her a way out if she wanted to remain separate from the investigation."

Hands planted on the table, leaning on it, Roy stared at the wood grain, thinking. ". . . Fernley's only shown an inclination to go after those involved with the trial. Ross isn't directly involved: all she did was retrieve a file, and read you a bunch of names over the phone. She's too far removed to be in any serious danger, and she can take care of herself." He looked up almost guiltily through the fringe of his bangs. ". . . She's kind of like you that way."

Riza dropped her gaze to Hayate, watching his eyes close in contentment at the continued scratching. "It didn't stop you from putting me in the safehouse," she said quietly.

"I felt it was necessary."

"And I feel I deserve an explanation."

When her gaze came up, it was determined: that much was clear from the set of her jaw, the way her lips pressed just slightly together. But something more showed that hadn't been present in the office. There was a tiny spark of hurt lurking just behind the whisky-brown of her eyes, darting in and out of view as she grappled with keeping a lid on that particular emotion. It was a look like she'd been suckerpunched in the gut, and didn't understand why.

Which was, in a metaphorical sense, exactly what he had done to her.

Riza's voice shattered the silence, quiet and firm. "Hayate; bed." The dog looked once at his mistress, then jumped down from the chair and trotted across to the circular pillow just inside the front door, curling up on it obediently. He rested his head on his front paws, though his eyes remained open, watching the two people still standing either side of the kitchen table. "You should rest as well, Colonel. You've had the least sleep of all."

Roy shook his head stubbornly. "Not until we're done here. I've never gone to bed angry with you before and I'm not about to start now." He bit the inside of his lip briefly. ". . . You're right. You do deserve an explanation."

Her arms wrapped around her ribs, almost as though she were hugging herself. "I assumed your silence meant I wasn't going to get one."

Discomfort churned in the pit of his stomach; he wasn't used to baring his soul the way he was about to do. "I was selfish." He ducked his head as hers came up, eyes staring at the table again. "It's not the first time I've been that way, and I don't expect it will be the last . . . but it was the first time I've ever been selfish because of you."

He gritted his teeth. "After how long I've known you, how long we've been together, I should trust that you can look after yourself. I _do_ trust you, but . . . I had a moment of doubt." How to put this, how to make sure she would understand . . . . "It felt like if I let you out of my sight for more than ten seconds, Fernley would show up and you'd be gone and it would be all my fault. It would be my fault because I got careless, because I didn't watch your back.

"I didn't want you participating in the investigation because it was like letting you stand right in front of Fernley and yell 'come get me.'" Roy took a deep breath, and let it out again. "But . . . I didn't consider how you would react if I put myself in your way. I didn't consider . . . how that would make you feel. All I knew was that if you could be somewhere safe, I could get to and take out the thing threatening the most important person in my life."

Looking up, Roy swallowed hard, face grim. Riza was watching him with a not-quite frown, simply listening and observing his body language. Taking his hands from the table, he stood straight, forcing himself to look her in the eye. "You've already nearly died once, because of me. I was . . . just trying to make sure that wouldn't happen again."

A wan hint of a smile tried to tug at the corner of his mouth, not making it very far. "I . . . can't afford to lose you."

Her eyes still watched him, inscrutable. Her fingers were curled in the fabric of her shirt, the knuckles white from the tight grip. When she spoke, her voice was husky and soft. "Are you saying that as a lover or a fighter?"

Lover or a fighter . . . ? Oh. He supposed, considering the last time he'd said that, they'd been in the middle of a coup, she had reason to question the sentiment. Was he referring to her as a tactical resource, or the woman who made the back of his neck tingle when he kissed her?

He stepped around the table, stopping just short of the side she occupied; with that guarded posture, he realized, she may not want him too close. His voice was low. "I'm saying it as someone that would go absolutely insane without you to keep me grounded," he said. "So . . . both, but . . . ." He hesitated, the churning in his stomach returning full force. "But a lover first, and a fighter second. It's been that way since this whole thing started."

Riza was silent, except for a nod of understanding. Her gaze dropped to the floor between them as she drew her lower lip between her teeth, shoulders riding high in discomfort of her own. "I owe you an apology, then," she said, voice so quiet, he almost didn't hear her.

She swallowed, then spoke again. "I thought . . . in sending me to the safehouse, you were being possessive. Like a child, hiding a toy you didn't want anyone else to play with because it was _yours_." She looked up in time to catch the twist in his lip. "But . . . you were being _protective_. You were just trying to keep me safe."

The first glint of hope began to wriggle in Roy's chest; hope that maybe they could put the tension and anger behind them. "Exactly." He held out a hand, palm-up: an invitation for her to complete the touch. "The sleeping pills in your drink . . . that was . . . _beyond_ stupid. I was desperate, I know it was the lowest thing I've ever done, and . . . ." He shrugged helplessly. "And I hope you know I'd never do anything like that under normal circumstances."

"I know."

Stepping forward, Riza gently pushed aside the hand he still held out to her, opting instead to slip her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest. Roy closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and burying his nose against the top of her head.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, feeling the strands of her hair tickle his lips. "From now on, we're in this together."

"We always were." She pulled back just far enough to look up at him. The discomfort that came with the airing of feelings — something that did not come naturally to either of them — was gone, replaced with with the light in her eyes that signalled drive and her intelligence. "We were working on parallels before, just not side by side. And that's where we are now."

"Best that we stay the course then," he said. Leaning down, shifting to cup her face in both hands, he pressed his lips against hers.

He had been so wrapped up in the goings-on the past few days, he had almost forgotten what it felt like, to have the soft press returned as she kissed him back, or her fingers, slender and strong, on his shoulders. Riza pushed gently, disengaging but not pulling away altogether.

"You're supposed to be getting some sleep," she reminded him. "It's not going to do any good if you're falling face-down on your desk."

Roy shook his head. "I don't think I could sleep now if I tried." He kissed her again, lightly. "Besides, you said you'd stay either at Headquarters or the safehouse. We can't share a bed at Headquarters . . . ." He smiled guiltily. "And I know the last place you want to be is at that house."

Shrugging slightly, Riza took a step back before turning and heading for the dresser across the room. "It's not so bad when I'm not there under protest," she answered. "And besides, it's practically guaranteed to be quiet, meaning you'll sleep better."

"I suppose that's true." He glanced down at himself as she opened a drawer. "Hey, you don't happen to have any of my clothes in there, do you?" He tugged at the front of his jacket. "This is already my spare, and it's almost at the twenty-four hour mark."

Riza paused long enough to hold up a man's white shirt. "Just this, and I think there's a pair of pants in the next drawer down. Civilian clothes, not military."

"That's fine; if we end up out in the city running down leads, we'll stand out less in civvies than in uniform." He watched her pull a black T-shirt from the drawer for herself before closing it and moving to the next one down. A pair of his own black pants were produced, followed by a pair of faded jeans. Turning, Riza tossed his clothes onto the bed behind her.

He was crossing the room to retrieve them as Riza reached up, popping open the clip holding her hair in its classic upswept position. Half of the blonde strands dropped, the others remaining at the same time she muttered "ouch."

Abandoning his shirt on the bed, Roy took a step in her direction. "Here; let me help." Taking the clip from her fingers, he gently tugged free the strands tangled around the spring, careful not to pull too hard. When it was free, he reached forward over her shoulder, dangling it in front of her nose. "There you go."

"Thank you."

Roy hesitated just the briefest second — after all, just because she had apologized didn't mean she wanted close contact — before slipping both arms around her waist. "I haven't had a real hug from you in four days," he murmured. "A lesser man might be driven crazy without that kind of contact."

Riza leaned back against him, soft smile audible in her voice. "How fortunate that you're so strong-willed, then." Her arms snugged gently against his as she glanced back over her shoulder. "Four days? Really?"

"Standing in your kitchen when we got back here after finding out about Eric." His nose brushed against the back of her neck, setting her shoulders rising at the tickle. "And you even cut that short: two minutes, and then you turned around to call Rebecca about getting you information."

"Hmmm." Shifting, she turned to face him, her arms slipping up over his shoulders as his dropped to her waist. "Close, but not quite. That night, you rolled over in your sleep. I woke up with my face in your shoulder. Does that not count?"

"Nope. I wasn't awake to enjoy it." Smirking, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers. "Now _this_, on the other hand . . . . This I can enjoy."

One blonde eyebrow lifted. "You're supposed to be getting some sleep, sir. We both are. And we still have to get to the safehouse before that. Just change your clothes —"

The already-present smirk widened into a full grin, diabolical edge evident. "Make me."

* * *

". . . Make you change your clothes?"

"That's what I said."

For a long moment, all she did was stare at him. It had to be the lack of sleep, bringing out that bizarrely childlike streak he kept so well-hidden from the rest of the world. That same streak that caused him to sulk quietly whenever someone called him 'useless,' or stubbornly refuse to do something because he 'just didn't want to.' _A man-child. I've involved myself with a man-child_.

Nevertheless, things would proceed much more quickly if she simply humoured him. "I was not aware," she said flatly, reaching up to undo the fasteners on his jacket, "that it's within my job description to dress you like I'm your mother."

"There's a difference between dressing and undressing." Reaching up, Roy wrapped his fingers around hers, the shit-disturber's grin fading back into a knowing smirk. "You've been tense for way too long. I'm just trying to help you have a little fun."

Riza shifted her weight from one foot to the other, uneasy. ". . . . There's a better time for this," she murmured, gaze dropping from his eyes to his hands. "When Fernley's gone, when you're not exhausted . . . ."

He shook his head. "You're using logic for something that you and I both know has no logic at all. Don't worry about me — I caught three or four catnaps last night. I'm good until we get another break. As for Fernley, I just want you to stop worrying for the four hours we've got, and relax. Then, when we're back on duty, you'll be twice as ready for anything he throws at you."

The opposing choices were holding a tug-of-war in her chest. On the one hand, she could give in, she could let him pay attention to her like he wanted — like she wanted too, really — and go back to the office in four hours like nothing had happened. But on the other hand, years of responsibility and discipline said no, that she needed to focus on getting her problems in order before indulging in anything.

"You make a good argument," she said quietly, not yet looking him in the eye again. "But say I go along with this. We still need to be at the safehouse. It was part of the agreement to let me back into the investigation."

Roy lifted a finger. "Ah, but remember the initial compromise I tabled? That you could stay in your apartment as long as someone was with you? You're in your apartment, and I'm here, and I've already said I'll be acting as your bodyguard until this is over." The finger moved to her chin, lifting gently so that he could look her in the eye. "I'm here, if you want me."

It was a long moment before she smiled, her fingers slipping from underneath his. "If that's an offer, then I accept. But you still have clothes to change, and so do I."

He smirked as the second closure on his jacket, halfway down his ribcage, was popped open. "Funny how that works . . . . Clothes have to come off in order for others to go on . . . ." His nose brushed teasingly against hers. "In order to gain something, something of equal value must be lost —"

"Don't you start," she muttered against his lip, pushing the jacket off his shoulders. "Don't start talking science now. You've got other things to think about."

In the span of five seconds, he had her jacket open and off; it dropped to the floor with his at the same time as his fingers tangled themselves in her hair. "There. That's one less thing."

There was nothing charming or flirtatious about the way his lips crashed into hers. Fierce was the only way to describe it, a man dying of thirst diving headlong into a pool of fresh water. Even with her eyes closed, Riza knew the room was spinning, could almost feel the floorboards shift under her feet.

Her fingers grappled blindly with the buttons of his shirt, the starched cotton falling open as she followed the line down. A small, sly smile, and she tugged the shirt free from where it was tucked into his pants to reach the last pair of buttons.

Roy sucked in an involuntary breath as her touch landed just forward of the mottled scar tissue on his left side. His lips left hers as he glanced down at her hand, before his eyes darted guiltily back. ". . . Sorry. Still feels weird for someone other than me to see it . . . ."

"It's all right." She pressed a light kiss to his cheek. "You know scars don't bother me."

He smirked almost reflexively, left hand dropping to her waist as he ducked low to nuzzle against the side of her neck. "I can see why they wouldn't." His nose pushed aside the high collar of her customary black shirt, opening a path for his lips to follow. Riza shuddered, her fingers curling into tight grips on the open sides of his shirt. His fingers pressed against the small of her back, nudging her closer against him.

Slowly, Riza trailed her fingers across the skin of his chest, letting the sensations paint a mental picture. The solid line of his collarbone, down over the warm expanse of his ribs that shifted as he breathed — that same breath hot on her neck — and the subtle ridges of muscle that marked his abdomen. Roy Mustang had never been what most people would think of as well-muscled. His shoulders were broad, as a result of his military training, but for the most part, he was trim, more wiry than others who had seen combat.

Her fingers eased over the scar tissue of his side, an irregular map of discoloured skin marred further by several ribbons of pale white where the skin had been stitched and allowed to heal. She knew he saw it as something like a blot of grease in a glass of otherwise perfectly clear water, but she didn't care. He was _alive_. That's what mattered. That he was alive and he was hers.

The fingers at the small of her back tugged her shirt free from the waistband of her pants, Roy's other hand disentangling itself from her hair to assist. His lips found hers again for a brief moment, one corner of his mouth tugged upward in the same smirk. "You're taking an awful lot of time with this. Travel time included, we're down to three hours and fifteen minutes. Can't you speed it up a little?"

Riza snorted quietly. "Sorry, I didn't realize I was keeping you waiting."

Her shirt was the first to join their jackets on the floor, his following suit just seconds later.

Grinning, Roy crouched slightly, catching her behind the knees and lifting; Riza made a small noise of surprise, her hands going to his shoulders for balance. The room spun as Roy turned, before everything turned a full ninety degrees. Her hair fluttered up past her face a split-second before her back hit the soft mattress.

Roy's tongue left a thin wet trail from her navel to halfway up her ribs before he shifted himself higher; dark eyes glinted despite the overhanging shadow of his bangs as they skimmed over the curve of her side, and across her shoulder. Her gaze was waiting to meet his, and when it did, he shook his head almost dazedly.

"Damn, I missed you," he muttered, before their lips met again. Three kisses in quick succession before his attention returned to the side of her neck, his hands grazing against her sides. Riza buried her face in his shoulder, memorizing the smell and feel of him for the hundredth time, the fingers of her left hand twining into his hair. Her right was pressed to his back, picking up the subtle movements of the muscle there.

Touch trailing over her hips, Roy pressed to the inside of the bone, laughing softly to himself as she twitched involuntarily, her breath catching audibly in her lungs. "Gotcha," he murmured against her skin, more in slyness than humour.

Riza shifted again, her hips nudging firmly, deliberately, against his, sending his fingers tightening in their grasp on her. "Of course you do," she said sarcastically, turning her head just to the left, brushing her nose against the sensitive skin behind his ear.

Any other retaliation she might have had planned, any retort she might have used, faded into soft buzzing at the back her mind. Roy left a pair of soft, short licks down her neck before his chin nudged against her collarbone. He kissed it once, gently, before she felt his lips part. A brief second of suction, before he moved upward again, and his mouth closed over the skin just to the side of her shoulder.

_The scar_, she realized, with a jolt. _He's following the scar from Envy . . . ._ Her palm curved around the back of his neck, without pressure so he wouldn't suffocate against her. He'd stopped dwelling on the fact she'd been injured months ago, once the wounds healed completely. Riza supposed he'd finally accepted that, with scars already on her back, what were a few more?

Unexpectedly, his head turned, and without even the preamble of a kiss, his teeth bit lightly against the expanse of skin where her shoulder met the column of her neck. Riza tensed, the buzzing in her mind intensifying as her left hand dropped from Roy's hair to the small of his back.

"Father warned me that some dogs bite," she murmured, trying to keep her breathing under control.

Roy snorted quietly, before lifting his head to look at her. "He'd kill us both if he knew we were this close," he answered, voice husky. "I was never high on the list of people he wanted around his daughter."

Rolling her eyes, Riza moved her right hand around to prod a finger lightly against his chest. "I'll remind you that _I_ chose to be around _you_."

"True." He smirked. "You've got some deep-rooted daddy issues, huh?" He dodged a second jab, leaning past it to kiss her swiftly on the lips. "Hey, I didn't say I had a _problem_ with it. But we've gotten a bit off-topic."

"Right. Where were we?"

Roy's skin was hot beneath her palms pressed to his back, his tongue flicking playfully against her upper lip and teeth. Her hips stirred without conscious thought as his mouth covered hers, with the same ferocity as when this started. Conscious thought wasn't possible now. All of her was focussed on getting closer, as close as possible, and never letting go of him for as long as she lived.

Sparks exploded behind her eyes as his hips abruptly responded against her, echoing the motion and pushing her back into the mattress. Riza's breath caught involuntarily on the exhale, a soft 'unh' landing on Roy's cheek. He said nothing, merely smiled knowingly and shifted again.

The second shift was different: it moved him down along her body, fingers trailing behind. He left a line of agonizingly slow kisses in his wake, from her lips to the hollow of her throat, to her sternum, ending just above her navel. Dark eyes looked up through the fringe of his bangs, the fingers of his left hand sliding underneath her belt, tugging firmly in a hint as to what came next.

Smirking to herself, Riza sat up at the same time he did, both his hands occupying themselves with the buckle at her waist. The brown leather snaked out through the loops when he pulled, before dropping to the floor with the rest of their clothing collection.

And by the time Riza's back hit the mattress again a minute later, Roy closer than ever atop her, that collection had grown by another belt, and two pairs of military-blue pants.


End file.
